


Corruption

by VerdantVulpus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Blood, Body Swap, Broken Hearted Crowley, Burning alive, Choking, Clever Dagon, Confinement, Crowley Dies (Good Omens), Crushing, Darkfic, Desert Island Fic, Dubcon Kissing, Emetophobia, Fright Demon - Freeform, Gore, Halloween, Hell, Hopeful Ending, Horror, Hunted, Imposter, Isolation, It's Temporary But Still, Love Wins, M/M, MCD, Mountains, No DubCon Sex, Pining, Possessed Aziraphale, Sort Of, Spooky, SpookySpookySpooky, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Uriel's Not So Bad, Violence, Vomiting, Wilderness, Wow This Is A DarkFic Alright, damnation, dubcon touching, eating non-food substances as torture, eventually, falling, forced eating, horror story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantVulpus/pseuds/VerdantVulpus
Summary: A Darkfic for Spooky Month. Updates every Thursday in October ending on Halloween! The story’s ending (as voted by FB poll) will be a relatively happy ending.Crowley and Aziraphale survived the body-swapped trial, but now the angel isn’t quite feeling himself. Some dark venomous thing urges him to hurt his best and only friend. Crowley, badly in need of solace and a very long sleep, travels to a remote, unfamiliar wilderness where he’s sure not to be interrupted while he licks his wounds.Meanwhile, Dagon, Lord of the Files, has come up with a particularly nasty plan to torment the traitorous demon, and being stranded alone on a foreign mountain range is probably the worst place Crowley could be. Will Aziraphale be able to pull his demon out of Hell’s clutches without falling into the same trap?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 83





	1. August in Tucson

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Horror, so we'll see how it goes.  
> As mentioned in the summary, this is a Halloween fic, with a mostly happy ending. It is violent AF though, so read at your discretion. This fic is complete and will update every Thursday in October ending on Halloween.
> 
> Heaping bags of the best Halloween candy and Full Size chocolate bars to my beta readers PinkPenguinParade and Free_Smarcher, who encouraged me to do my worst. They are accomplices now.
> 
> Happy Spook Month!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wielding Crowley’s love like a weapon to wound the demon was something Aziraphale would never even contemplate doing! The words sliding from his poisoned mouth shocked the angel back to his senses. He didn’t just say that, did he? He couldn’t have just said those things, Could he?

Aziraphale’s smile was beginning to ache. He tried to tell himself he was simply exhausted, and he was exhausted, truly. He had helped stop the war that would end the world only yesterday, and today he had escaped Heaven’s wrath and marched his way through Hell wearing a corporation that didn’t fit right at all. He was dashed tired to be honest, and emotionally well wrung-out but that wasn’t the crux of why he held his face in a rictus of happiness. 

Crowley was looking at him, a little puzzled frown starting on those wide lips, ginger brows beginning to pull down into his dark glasses as if in concern. Aziraphale forced his grin wider, but that only made it worse. They were strolling in the park, having just toasted their victory at the Ritz and not wanting to part ways yet, and Aziraphale’s mask was slipping quickly.

“What’s eating you, Angel?” Crowley asked, taking Aziraphale by the elbow and steering him to a more secluded spot by some cherry trees. Aziraphale pulled his arm away hastily, and swore at himself under his breath, despising the hurt expression he’d just inspired from the demon.

“I’m sorry, I’m just...uncomfortable,” Aziraphale grumbled. “I wasn’t expecting our little body swap to have lingering…” he searched for an appropriate word, “sensations.”

Crowley looked very confused for a moment, and Aziraphale had a moment of dread that he was alone in experiencing anything untoward from this. 

“Uh...I’m not...What are you feeling?” Crowley asked, looking very uncomfortable.

“When I was in your body, I could feel —I’m not sure how to describe it— Hell, I suppose? It felt slick, like oil, and it was more than a little distracting if I’m to be honest,” Aziraphale explained, shuddering in revulsion without meaning to. Crowley snorted loudly.

“Don’t know what to tell ya, Angel,” he sneered. “Wearing you felt fresh as spring, although Heaven itself was more than a bit disappointing. Sorry to have had to touch you with my corruption.” 

That was the word!

“Yes, exactly! Thank you. That’s what it feels like precisely,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “And even now, I feel it still, sliding around my corporation. It is distressing, that’s all. Like a stain I’m unsure how to wash out. Do you suppose it will fade soon?”

“Dunno,” Crowley growled. “Maybe not. Maybe I’ve ruined your pristine holy body with my filth.”

Aziraphale blinked, suddenly aware of Crowley’s defensive tone and body language. What was he upset about? He wasn’t the one who’s very essence was itching with metaphysical hives!

“I don’t know what you’re being unpleasant about, Crowley,” he huffed. “You just said you were unaffected by this.”

“No, you’re right,” the demon answered, dripping sarcasm. “You’re clearly the aggrieved party here.”

“I AM!” Aziraphale snapped. “I really am very uncomfortable and you are being a prat, as always.” Crowley laughed coldly, shot Aziraphale a very rude hand gesture and then stomped off. Aziraphale felt the infernal slide under his skin again and nearly gagged even as his anger swelled in his throat and he shouted “Demon!”

Crowley froze midstep, causing him to stumble slightly before he rounded on Aziraphale, closing their distance again.

“Yeah, what?” he snarled. “Big surprise to you that being a demon is ugly business, is it? Suppose it must be a real shock to your dainty precious standards to have so much to do with me.”

The slick slide of demonic residue was taking over and Aziraphale was desperately afraid of it even as part of him was rejoicing in the freedom it offered. The corruption rose in an answering call to Crowley’s ire, as if trying to go back to its source. Aziraphale really wished it would. There was something terrifying about the fire eroding his mental filters between what he felt and what he was about to say.

“I promise you I had no idea it would feel like this, Crowley. If this is how you exist on the daily I understand why you are so blasted unpleasant all the time.”

“I’ve been plenty ‘pleasant’ to you, Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed. “You have no idea the things I could have subjected you to over the years if I really wanted to be ‘unpleasant’. Certainly could have gotten up to any number of ugliness if I wasn’t pouring you drinks while you slurped oysters, or stuffed your holy pink mouth with cake. For someone so very holy you sure do enjoy a sinful amount of gluttony.”

“I am holy though,” Aziraphale retorted, feeling his lips twist into the demon’s usual cruel smirk. He had known Crowley for thousands of years. He knew the chinks in his armour, and the terrible freedom flooding his brain was encouraging him to strike. And he wanted to, God forgive him. He was enjoying it.

“I’m an angel,” he gloated, crowding into Crowley until the demon was forced to retreat a step and then another. “I exist in Her Grace, every day of my existence. I can have my wine and oysters and cake and no matter what you choose to call it, She doesn’t seem to mind. But I wouldn’t expect a slithering demon to understand the difference between a simple earthly pleasure and a sin. Your nature was corrupted from the very beginning, even before you were a demon. Why else would you have Fallen?”

Crowley had gone white, his mouth hanging open. Aziraphale knew he’d never expected to hear him say anything like this. And he wouldn’t, normally. But this was Crowley’s ugliness, not his, and now that it was sliding up his throat and dripping from his tongue, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could stop it even if he wanted to. He could smell the proverbial blood in the water, and his enemy was on the back foot, his throat exposed.

“So what could you ever hope to know of love, Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded. “What makes you think you, of all broken creatures, think you have a right to love an angel?”

He’d known Crowley’s true feelings for over three thousand years, and suspected it for even longer. Aziraphale had always kept this knowledge secret, holding it in his heart and drawing on it for strength when he felt low on courage. Crowley’s love had been a secret he kept because both Heaven and Hell would destroy the demon if they knew he was capable of such beautiful feelings, such goodness. 

Wielding Crowley’s love like a weapon to wound the demon was something Aziraphale would never even contemplate doing! The words sliding from his poisoned mouth shocked the angel back to his senses. He didn’t just say that, did he? He couldn’t have just said those things, Could he?

Crowley staggered away uttering a horrible wounded string of nonsense vowels. He turned abruptly and vanished into the ether, leaving Aziraphale alone under the cherry trees.

*****

Dagon wished she could hear the argument. It looked juicy, and the way Crowley seemed to be flinching at the angel’s words made her very very curious about what exactly was being said. She’d been tailing Crowley since she spotted the two traitors leaving that ridiculous restaurant, trying to figure out how they’d survived the trials. 

She had been reading Crowley’s reports for thousands of years. She knew virtually everything there was to know about his time on earth, sorting his paperwork and reviewing his requests for resources, reassignments, new bodies when he’d been discorporated, which happened with startling regularity in certain centuries.

Crowley’s reports were always glowing with self-aggrandizement, which was common enough with every other demon’s reports. No one wanted to admit failure to the powers that be in Hell. So Crowley would go on and on about his achievements and Dagon would pass the information on, occasionally asking for follow up information if a certain bit of temptation seemed worthy of commendation. 

Eventually Dagon began to see an irregularity in Crowley’s reporting, specifically when it came to the Holy Principality Aziraphale, whom Crowley was supposed to be in conflict with. Compared to the glowing reviews the demon lavished on himself, his reports about the angel were always stilted, devoid of detail. It made sense to Dagon once she learned Crowley had been working with the angel to thwart their war. Now, seeing the way the angel was tearing the demon down, the twist of agony in Crowley’s long body, Dagon was beginning to understand that the Principality had likely turned the snake to his side long ago. Crowley had given the angel power over him. It was disgusting but it explained how he could have done what he had to Ligur, how he would have found the gall to betray Hell.

And best of all, it gave Dagon an idea that would see Crowley suffer immensely and likely award her a commendation.

Crowley had fled — the coward— but the angel was still around, pale face tilted to the sunny sky. Was he communicating with Heaven? Maybe the archangels had lied and Aziraphale was still their agent after all. Well, it didn’t matter. The angel wasn’t Hell’s concern. Dagon wrapped herself tighter in her disguise and started down the path, passing far enough to avoid being noticed by the Principality’s passive senses, but close enough to catch a bit of his ethereal presence. Dagon stuffed the little golden glow into a ziplock bag, then slid it into a freshly manifested manila envelope. By the time she was back in hell, she had her report drafted in her mind. It was a quick enough procedure then to type it up, add it to the envelope, seal it, timestamp and file it appropriately. She grinned to herself and set about the rest of the daily files, waiting for the commendation to come in.

*****

Aziraphale was deep in thought for the rest of the evening. He’d managed to wander back to the bookshop and go through the motions of inspecting inventory and readying everything to open the business again in the morning. It was important for appearances, of course...wasn’t it? He was frowning still. Had been since he left the park. At first the frown felt wonderful after forcing that smile all afternoon, but now it just reminded him that he was tired, and very very sad.

The oily ugly feeling of corruption had begun to fade as the evening wore on. The longer he inhabited his corporation the more his own angelic nature seemed to burn away anything that didn’t belong there until finally, sometime after midnight, Aziraphale was truly himself once more and the memory of everything he’d said came back in a horrifying rush. The teacup shook violently in his hand and he cried out in anguish, his book falling from limp fingers.

He had tormented Crowley for the crime of loving him! He’d wounded the demon, sent him fleeing. That hadn’t been the plan for today at all! Aziraphale moaned, letting the teacup fall to the rug to join its contents so he could rest his face in his hands. 

He had decided, if they should both be fortunate enough to survive their trials, that he would confess to Crowley that he knew the truth of his feelings for the angel. He’d do it gently, romantically, with wine and candles and soft music. He’d confess Crowley’s love so that the demon wouldn’t have to say it, knowing it would be too difficult for him. And then he’d finally tell him the truth he had been keeping all along as well. That he loved Crowley back, with everything he had.

What the blazes had come over him?!

Aziraphale darted to his feet in a panic. He had to find Crowley. He had to fix this somehow. He all but ran from the shop, searching for a taxi, panic constricting his throat. How would he fix this? How?

The sense of panic grew as he approached Mayfair. The taxi had barely stopped before he was opening the door, tossing some notes at the driver. He’d overpaid by a fair margin, but that hardly mattered. He rushed to Crowley’s flat, and pounded on the door, praying he wasn’t too late, that he’d know what to say when he saw the demon again.

No answer. Aziraphale whined anxiously, a trembling sound in the back of his throat. He pounded on the door again. 

“Crowley! Crowley Please let me in!” he shouted. “I didn’t mean a word of it, dear! I don’t know what came over me, darling, Please!”

Nothing.

Aziraphale held his breath, pressing back the urge to cry but tears were already stinging his eyes. He needed to fix this now!

The door blew in off its hinges splintering the wooden frame, and Aziraphale stepped into the stark, lifeless flat. 

“Crowley?” he called, snapping on the lights. He could feel that the flat was empty, save for the acrid scent of smoke. Heart in his throat, Aziraphale followed the smell to the room beyond Crowley’s study. His plants! Every last one of them had been burned to ash. The throne too had been slightly melted and singed as something unfathomably hot passed it on its way...somewhere.

Not here. 

Crowley was gone.

*****  
One benefit to being six thousand years old is that it afforded one a great deal of time to amass quite a fortune, and that was particularly fortunate if one happened to be a frantic demon hell-bent on getting out of Dodge. Crowley only needed to stop by the flat long enough to vent some frustration (and some hellfire), and snatch up his go bag and then he was off to the airport. Shame he couldn’t take the Bentley, but he needed to go someplace very far, very fast, and there was no getting there by road.

The bag was something Crowley had ready at all times, stashed under his bed. He never knew when he’d get a sudden assignment from head office and need to catch a quick flight. Most of his assets were liquid, and Crowley could summon what he needed, but traveling without any luggage at all tended to raise unwanted attention, so he’d kept a bag with the usual travelling human’s frippery, complete with passport, ready to grab quickly if he needed to haul arse out of London on the fly.

And he did now, scanning the various screens at Heathrow, in order to select a decent flight leaving, preferably, within the hour. Once again, he’d gotten some rotten luck and most of the flights were headed somewhere in Europe. That wasn’t far enough. The best candidate was a flight to Tucson, (unfortunately wasn’t a direct flight, but given the distance, he figured the stopover couldn’t be helped). That flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for two hours, but Crowley could lay low until then. He conjured himself a ticket and stepped into the queue. Once he’d passed all the bloody checkpoints, Crowley paced the airport, trying to stay busy, keeping his mind empty until he could get the hell away from London. His behaviour attracted the attention of airport security who were eager to ask him some questions. That annoyance was a worthy distraction for an hour but as his departure time neared, he quickly pulled himself out of their memories and proceeded to his platform.

The flight was boring enough that he could force himself to sleep. The stopover was short enough to avoid attracting security again with his nerves. The flight to Tuscon was pure torture, his mind replaying every word the angel ever said to him, trying to pin point exactly when he’d given his heart away, when that transgression had been noticed, and all the clues Crowley had missed over the years that Aziraphale was never going to accept him as anything other than a demon.

August in Tucson, Arizona was actually pretty comfortable for a demon forged in hellfire. Crowley watched other travellers emerge from the airport already cursing the heat but he wanted to find a nice rock and curl up for a kip. And now that he was here, there wasn’t really any particular use for a human form really. He got into a taxi and asked to be taken anywhere near the desert. Somewhere he could take some photos, he said, to hopefully waylay any fears the driver might have about Crowley planning to murder him. He knew how his request sounded. The driver shrugged and drove. 

Crowley finally stepped out onto rocky ground that would soon be his home for the foreseeable future. The driver asked for his fare. Crowley flipped him off and walked into the wilderness.


	2. A Guest In The Canyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale seeks advice and comfort.
> 
> Crowley just wants to hide.
> 
> Hell comes knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the spook.
> 
> Thanks to PinkPenguinParade and Free_Smarcher for the beta-ing

“I don’t know what happened,” Aziraphale cried into a gaudy paisley handkerchief while Madame Tracy made sympathetic noises at him and waited for the tea to steep. He’d come to her at a loss for anywhere better to go, and it hadn’t been a completely terrible plan, as it turned out. She, having been so recently possessed by the angel, was in a unique spot to understand, and she was worldly enough too that maybe she could even advise him, in some way. Aziraphale would take guidance from just about any friendly source at this point.

“Everything had been going so well, or so I thought,” he sniffed. “But I just felt this powerful revulsion from somewhere deep where our essences touched and I’m still not sure I understand why? Why would I feel anything like that from Crowley? I never have before!”

“Well, no,” Tracey warbled from the kitchen. “But you were never _inside_ the man, either. You saw him for everything he’s said and done and what you’ve shared over the years, dearie, but not what he _is_.”

“What he _is_ , madam, is _wonderful_. And I have attacked him, betrayed him!”

“Wonderful as he may well be, he’s still a…” she glanced up toward the door that happened to be across from another door that led to Shadwell’s flat. She lowered her voice. “He’s still a demon, isn’t he, luv? I’d have to imagine, no matter how much you care for him, that there is something rather...incompatible in your make-ups, as it were. Perhaps you didn’t take into account how it might coat you in something a little sticky?”

“Sticky!” Aziraphale exclaimed, offended.

“From what you told me of what you said, well, it really doesn’t sound like _you_ dear,” she replied, bustling over with the teacups. “Seems to me that something from the other side hitched a ride with you.” She took a sip of her tea and gave him a rather pointed look. “It does happen, time to time.”

It wasn't anything to do with Crowley, _specifically_ , as far as Aziraphale could figure it. No, something of Hell itself must have stuck to Crowley's corporation when he brought it there. Like to like, and all that. He knew well enough that there were ethereal energies throughout his own corporation, doing any number of useful things to keep him going — surely it was the same for Crowley. Well, the inverse. _Infernal_ energies. But the same. Odd, then, that Crowley hadn't complained about being affected by some 'lingering stink of goody-two-shoes-ness, Angel' or not being able to wash the holier-than-thou out of his mouth, but Crowley _had_ been an angel once; perhaps he simply hadn't noticed! Aziraphale, on the other hand, certainly had no experience of dealing with anything so viscerally evil as what he'd felt from his visit to Hell, and that awful residue.

To think that Crowley had that with him all the time! That made so much sense. All the sudden bursts of fury, the petty hurtful insults, the nigh-constant stroppery throughout the ages.

And in particular, the way Aziraphale sometimes found Crowley tearing himself apart after something had gone wrong. The fury he’d unleash upon himself was unlike any of the mistreatments he’d ever aimed at the angel. He’d get himself into such a state, half crazed and violent, or blitzed mindless with whatever substance he’d managed to acquire, always trying to obliterate something that was driving him to destruction.

Oily, slick, tempting him to harm _someone_ and Crowley inevitably chose himself.

And now, the poor boy was alone somewhere with that venom churning in his blood!

“Thank you so very much for the tea, madam,” Aziraphale choked, standing abruptly. Madame Tracy glanced at the cup the angel hadn't even touched yet, then beamed a supportive smile at him.

“You go find him, luv,” she encouraged him, patting his hand. “And be sure to tell him hullo from me.”

*****

Crowley had been walking for nearly five hours, keeping a mountain range in front of him like a lodestone, even as his feet began to drag with exhaustion and his blisters had long since torn and made blisters again. _It was perfect_. The bone-weary pain of it was sublime right now. It was everything his black melancholy heart could ask for. 

Those mountains would have rocks, absolute scads of the fuckers and he could slide in nice and cool and safe. That would be perfect too.

He’d been walking for far too long to be denied the respite he was so desperately seeking, which is why it was beyond fucking rude that he should find, instead, Aziraphale. Crowley was parched, exhausted and out of breath as he stumbled on some loose rocks and slid to his knees, unable to even properly swear at the angel. How did he find him so fast? 

“You poor dear,” Aziraphalel sighed, quickly closing the distance so that he could sweep Crowley up effortlessly in a warm embrace. Crowley cringed. He knew he looked like a disaster and probably smelled worse than he looked. He really should have shed the human form before now, but it travelled faster than his serpent form and he really wanted to get to these mountains and the angel really wasn’t supposed to be here!

“You must be just aching,” Aziraphale fussed, squeezing him against the plush fabrics covering his chest. Crowley gritted his teeth, too tired to free himself from the angel's arms, but determined _not_ to sigh in boneless pleasure at how bloody comforting it was. He crossed his arms across his dusty chest and sulked.

"I do wish you hadn't run off, dear boy," the angel chided softly. "All the way to a desert in America too. You know it is impossible to get a decent cup of tea in this country. _Tea_ _dust_ , more like, isn't it?" he prattled on, filling the awkward silence with cheery nonsense as he always did. Crowley snorted and curled in on himself more, refusing to look at the angel, keeping his eyes focused on the darkening sky over the distant horizon. 

Aziraphale carried Crowley down into part of a canyon where he could hear the sound of a rushing water. His mouth fell open, suddenly agonizingly dry and he struggled in the angel’s arms trying to get to the creek faster. He was set on the bank where Crowley half fell into the cool water, gulping it in, letting it slide over his head and shoulders. Strong hands lifted him back out and cradled him.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley finally demanded, his voice weak and hoarse, but he’d discorporate before he let the angel cuddle him without complaint. “Shouldn’t you be shoveling profiteroles into your mouth back in Soho and leaving me to fuck off like you wanted?”

“Oh, my dear,” the angel cooed. “There is still so much more we have to discuss. I really didn’t think you’d run off quite this far.”

“Not far enough,” Crowley spat, trying to shrug off the comforting fingers stroking through his wet hair.

“There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you eventually, dear boy,”

“You shouldn’t be here, Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered, summoning what might be the last of his strength to prop himself up off the angel’s lap and stagger back up to his feet.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it?,” Aziraphale replied kindly. “After all, it _is_ just us now. 'Our side', you said. You can run off all you want, but I’m all you have, Crowley." The angel's sad blue eyes drifted Heavenward for a moment and Crowley inwardly flinched when the angel added "And vise versa, I'm afraid.”

“And you’re all right with that now?” Crowley sneered, heartbroken and hating himself over that weakness. “Being lo— being around a _demon?”_

“You love me,” Aziraphale stood as well, brushing the wet patches Crowley left on his waistcoat. “I happen to think it's wonderful, my dear.”

Crowley wavered on his burning feet and let his anger and exhaustion flood from his chest in a loud mocking laugh. The water evaporating off him felt cool and it seemed to restore enough strength for the demon to vent his spleen. Aziraphale frowned, pursing his cute lips in a maddening expression of hurt. _He was hurt?_ Well, _great putrid stinking bollocks_ to Aziraphale's hurt fucking feelings! It felt good to lash out, to steal some of his power back. He never should have let the angel get so close, shared so much of himself. What had he been thinking? No, he needed to take back the power he'd given Aziraphale to hurt him. He needed to remember who hurts whom when it comes to angels and demons. 

So he laughed his loudest, angriest laugh, knowing his sneer was more of a snarl but it would do. He laughed right up until his windpipe clamped shut under the pressure of Aziraphale’s hand around his throat. Golden eyes snapped open in shock and pain and he tried to shout a protest but barely managed a strangled squeak.

"You love me, Crowley," the angel muttered, his grip tightening painfully. "I suppose _some_ goodness and love was bound to rub off on you after all those centuries of you clinging to me like a creeping vine. But here you are, sulking in the Sonoran desert because I don't love you in return?"

Crowley struggled, pawing and scratching at the vise grip so casually throttling him, eyes wide in panic. 

"Crowley, dear. I _tolerated_ you because it was convenient. I never truly understood how horribly repulsive you were though until I was forced to occupy this _corrupt_ body of yours." Aziraphale smiled at him almost peacefully as his blue eyes bled into black. 

All at once the steel grip opened and dropped Crowley like the deadened sac of limbs he was. Crowley hit the stoney bank awkwardly, jarring his elbow and shoulder, but he barely noticed the pain through his terror.

It wasn’t the angel. It wasn’t Aziraphale.

“Fuuuck me,” he whispered, trying to inch away from the Fright. It continued to smile at him, its eyes returning to the sky blue of his favourite person, his _world_. A Fright. A fucking FRIGHT. He’d seen their work before. He knew what they could do. They were called in to torment the most stubborn evil mortal souls. Hell had never turned one loose on a demon before. It was unthinkable to do that to their own kind.

As unthinkable as a bucket of holy water.

Crowley staggered back in earnest now, choking on a sob. He spun away, and dashed across the creek, hoping his fear would drive him forward into the night. 

Of course, Frights are manifestations of their victim’s fears, demons created in Hell specifically to torture the damned inside their own minds. It knew everything Crowely knew. It would follow him forever, not that it mattered. Crowley’s burst of adrenaline managed to get him no further than the water’s edge before it hollowed him out, his momentum causing him to careen forward into the sharp brush on the bank. He gasped like a caught fish, flinching weakly when a strong fist balled up in the back of his wet jacket and dragged him further into the canyon. 

Crowley struggled but he was just so tired. His feet stumbled and twisted in the loose rock until finally he gave in and went limp, barely registering the lacerations and contusions marking his arms and legs as he was dragged along the stones for what felt like hours. 

“Here we are, dear boy,” the Fright exclaimed cheerily, setting Crowley down on cold dusty stone. He opened his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness. They seemed to have travelled deeper into the canyon at the foot of the mountain range, coming to a large cave. In different circumstances, coming across this shelter would have been perfect. As it was, it closed Crowley in. Three of four directions nothing but towering rock. He blinked toward the mouth of the cave, seeing the incredible spatter of stars, so much brighter than he’d seen them in ages. And, of course, the AziraFright, standing comfortably between him and the exit, smiling serenely.

“What do you want?”

“Shh,” it hushed, crouching down to gently stroke a lock of hair from Crowley’s forehead. Shit, this thing was nearly perfect! It looked and sounded exactly like the angel. It even smelled like him somehow. Like sunshine and petrichor and parchment. Crowley was _fucked_. The hand in his hair felt so good and he was so tired it was easy, tempting even, to forget.

“You’re not him,” he groaned, as much to remind himself as deny the creature. It smiled fondly, helping Crowley to sit up, propped against the rock wall before it knelt by his side. 

“I might as well be,” it hummed, gently smoothing out Crowley’s waistcoat and jacket as if they weren’t badly streaked with dust and sweat. “Same voice, same body, same affectionate contempt for you.” 

Crowley tried to growl at it but the sound came out as a whine. It patted his shoulder soothingly. 

“You remember what the _other_ Aziraphale told you before your wild retreat to America? He felt your essence and found it revolting, dear. He only tolerated you all this time because you were both lonely. Someone so cut off from their own kind for thousands of years would inevitably look at their closest enemy with some familiarity and comfort. Only natural, really. And the angel is so kind, isn’t he? And polite. He wouldn’t want to be rude and actually tell you what he thought of you.”

“Stop,” Crowley choked. The Fright sighed ruefully, looking down into Crowley’s wide eyes as if he were a stubborn child. 

“ _T_ _hat_ Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to countenance having you in his orbit once he finally really _knew_ you. ‘A corruption’, he said.”

“I know,” Crowley moaned. He’d bloody been there, hadn’t he? And that _had_ really been Aziraphale. 

"I, on the other hand, will never abandon you, dear," it promised. "We are going to have such a splendid time together. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" 

Crowley stared at him, at _it_ in mute horror, trying to ease away despite the rocks digging into his back. His boot slid against some loose stone, sparking pain in his blistered foot and he hissed, twisting into a ball.

"Let me see your feet," it murmured, gently rebuffing Crowley's attempt to struggle, pulling off his shoes and socks. Crowley hid his face in his hands as the Fright pretended to tend to his badly blistered feet. Warmth spread out from his toes, easing the ache and the demon gasped in shock, staring at the creature with incomprehension. 

"I'm made from a little bit of _him_ ," it winked. "But you're doing most of this yourself. You'd be amazed how much power the mind has over the body."

"You come from my brain," Crowley snapped. "You don't know anything I don't know."

The unimpressed look in those blue eyes was extremely convincing.

"There's no call to be rude, Crowley. I was just making conversation. Of course you're familiar with the power of the mind. As a demon your particularly aware of how that can be applied to torture."

Crowley cringed.

"Really now," it smiled warmly. "Cringing, dear?"

"Wasn't," Crowley denied weakly. "Shivered, that's all. It does get cold in the desert at night after all".

"Then let me warm you, dear boy."

The kind, beautiful face lowered, pressing warm lips against Crowley's cool cheek. He flinched at the contact, confused and frightened but the kiss came again and again until the soft plush lips brushed against his dry, chapped mouth. 

Eyes closed in exhaustion, all Crowley could smell was Aziraphale. All he could taste was Aziraphale as he parted his lips, his body instinctively returning the kiss. He felt a smooth hand against his cheek and moaned, licking up into that hot mouth, desperate for the softness, for comfort. He whimpered, melting into the haze of pleasure and weariness. It was good— _great_ even— exactly as he'd hoped when he _let_ _himself_ _hope_ for something more. It was everything he ever wanted.

"Angel," he sighed, wrapping his fingers in silken curls.

"Oh my darling," Aziraphale whispered. "You're going to sound so _beautiful_ while you're dying."

Crowley's brain reengaged with a jolt. _Not. The. Angel!_ He shoved the Fright off him.

"You're not going to kill me," he spat, scrubbing the guilt from his mouth with a dusty, torn sleeve. "If you discorporate me I end up in Hell and you cease to have a purpose!"

The Fright giggled, its merry face still sporting the fetching blush and kiss-swollen lips.

"You're thinking too narrowly, dear," it whispered conspiratorially. "I don't need to discorportate you to kill you, Crowley." It leaned in close, bringing the adored scent of Aziraphale with it. Crowley swallowed his whimper and it felt like sandpaper in his dry throat.

"I'm in your mind, you silly goose. And you have always been so uniquely _imaginative_."

Well fuck. That had a ring of truth to it. He’d been discorporated enough times over the many many years to know what death feels like. It had never been pleasant. It had always hurt. 

"So many deaths already behind you, Crowley," it mused, following his train of thought. "You _have_ been through it, haven't you, dear? Still, I think we can find some new deaths you _haven't_ tried." Its warm smile offered all the comfort of a frozen ice pick in the eye. "For example, I don't believe I've ever _smited_ you before! Let's try that, shall we?"

Crowley tried to scoff. It wasn't an angel. He had to keep that in mind. He couldn't be smited by a fucking lesser demon! 

But something was tugging at the back of his mind. Something important.

"You almost missed it, didn't you?" 

Crowley looked up warily. The smile was so kind. 

"I told you, dear. I am made from part of _that_ Aziraphale's essence. I carry a spark of Grace. Not much, I admit, but I trust you'll find that it's enough."

Crowley blinked. This wasn't something he knew about Frights. This was _new_ , and it felt horribly true. It was so fucking close to the real thing and— 

The Fright stood, unfurling gleaming wings, his hair shining in the faint starlight like a halo. Blue eyes blazed as brightly as the flaming sword the angel held in his right hand. Crowley scrambled away but his back was flush with the rock behind him. 

"No no no, Angel! _Please_!" he wailed, fully caught up in the nightmare.

" _Demon_ ," Aziraphale snarled, slashing the sword down. Crowley screamed. All at once he was consumed with an ancient memory, far older than a mere six thousand years. That fatal taste of divine fury that tore his wings and sent him freefalling into the black. He burned, twisted and shrieking. His eyes wide and unseeing, vision shocked to purest white and then red red _red_.


	3. We Make This World Our Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds help from an unexpected quarter.
> 
> Crowley believes he may have found a way to evade the Fright.

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell."

"Pardon? Were you speaking to me?"

Aziraphale looked up, surprised to find there was a customer in his shop, staring at him quizzically after he randomly started quoting Wilde out loud.

"Can I help you find something?" Aziraphale recovered gracelessly, beaming a smile at the young gentleman he hoped was radiant enough to hide his cavernous despair.

The gentleman shook his head and continued to browse. Aziraphale assumed he'd just stepped in to get out of the weather. It had turned as foul as his mood, dropping rain in great soaking sheets. Aziraphale let himself sink back into himself again, absently poking a half-eaten shortbread around the saucer. He had no idea where he'd left the teacup.

He was considering how to politely shoo the customer out, deciding he might as well close shop and retire to the backroom to brood more comfortably. He gave a slight sigh of relief at the jolly ring of the shop doorbell, assuming the gentleman had taken his leave on his own. The relief turned to something else entirely as a heavenly aura assaulted his eyelids.  He snapped up in alarm and found himself looking into Uriel's dark eyes . Aziraphale flicked his gaze to the customer and Uriel followed suit, suddenly looking a tad uncomfortable.

“Excuse me,” she said to the gentleman. It wasn’t a polite courtesy, but a holy suggestion and the gentleman turned smartly and left the shop. Aziraphale immediately snapped the lock and turned the sign to closed before returning his gaze to the unwelcome Archangel.

“I was rather under the impression our business was concluded when you lot failed to murder me,” he growled, too sick with worry over his friend to care about being polite to the likes of her.

“I wanted to make sure you were here,” she replied, her eyes taking him in, then roaming about the shop. She looked uncertain. “And I’m sorry about the murdering bit. You know how Michael gets. Everything’s always so dire.”

“You didn’t agree?” he retorted. “You didn’t seem all that fond of me when you accosted me the other day.”

“I wasn’t,” she agreed, still looking somewhat on the back foot. “I only wanted you to choose a side, Aziraphale. And no, I didn’t agree that we should start destroying our own kind. I was outvoted. I had to obey.”

That much made sense. Aziraphale knew full well how hard it was to disobey. That didn’t mean he forgave her. She would have stood by and watched while he burned.

“What do you want?” he demanded. She seemed almost relieved to be getting to business.

“Were you in the Sonoran desert twelve hours ago?” she asked, watching him as if trying to sort out a puzzle.

“I was not,” he scoffed “I haven’t left London.”

Uriel frowned and something like concern flashed across her face for a moment. Aziraphale wanted to ignore it. He wanted to rush her out of his shop immediately, but the question was too strange, and too soon after Crowley’s disappearance to not pique his interest. Uriel didn’t make him ask.

“ _ Your _ power was used to smite a demon on another continent,” she told him, her voice pitched low as if fearing someone might overhear. Aziraphale felt almost faint from shock. She continued, fidgeting with her jacket as if nervous. “I know you won’t tell me how you survived the trial, and I won’t ask. I had a theory that it had to do with the demon Crowley...with your... _ relationship _ with him and that’s why I was so confused when I saw you smite him.”

“Smite  _ Crowley _ ?” Aziraphale felt panic knock at his ribs and clutched the counter with bloodless fingers. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t understand you, Aziraphale. You clearly have powers outside of what a Principality ought to, but this doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would you be consorting with the demon for so long, thwart the Great Plan by his side, and then suddenly smite him out of nowhere in the middle of a bloody desert?”

“I didn’t!

“I thought that, maybe…” Uriel hesitated, lowered her voice. “Maybe you loved him.” Aziraphale said nothing. He gripped the countertop, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from dissolving in panic or shaking the Archangel senseless. He was desperate for answers but terrified this was all a trap. “I thought that if you loved the demon and if somehow he loved  _ you _ , that somehow that may have granted you some power to help you survive the trial, but…”

“Why would I tell you anything, Uriel?” Aziraphale demanded. “If what you are saying about this desert incident is true, and not some vulgar lie then perhaps we ought to discuss how my celestial power would be used stateside when I haven’t left London.”

“That is a concern of mine as well, yes,” Uriel sighed. “Unfortunately I am not permitted to look into it further at this time.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Uriel stood straighter and pierced Aziraphale with her gaze, finally annoyed. 

“Aziraphale, your  _ boyfriend  _ was smote, yet  _ didn’t  _ die. He was struck using  _ your  _ power a  _ continent  _ away. Was I wrong to think you’d want to know?” Uriel demanded right back. Aziraphale demurred quite a bit at that. Uriel held him fast with her glare for a beat longer before she gave a huff of impatience and began pacing. “I mean, it’s bloody weird, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to be looking into any of this, but I’ve always seen more than most and I saw  _ that _ so…” she crossed her arms defensively. “You can do what you want with the information, Aziraphale. The others won’t care either way.”

“But  _ you  _ do?” Aziraphale was suspicious. Uriel sighed for a moment, her dark eyes tracing around the shop. He couldn’t tell if the Archangel was hesitating or stalling, or what the reason would be for either. 

“We used to come to Earth more often,” she said finally. “I had responsibilities here too, once. I saved the Baptist and his family, I moved among the mortals doing Her work. I was the Angel of Repentance once.”

“And?”

“It’s all been automated now, the church thinks they get to decide who is redeemed. Seemed like maybe She agreed, but we don’t lose ourselves so quickly as that, Aziraphale. Would you simply cease to be a Principality because Gabriel said so? You were created for a purpose. So was I.”

“Uriel, what is your point?”

“The demon! Crowley!” Uriel cried, and bless him if she didn’t look genuinely pained. “What if it is possible? What if he…” she cut herself off, running a hand through her dark curls. “If I was right. If he truly loved you it could mean he was capable of redemption.”

Aziraphale felt cold. What Uriel had just said was tantamount to heresy! If Michael was in the mood to murder fellow angels, hearing those words could well put Uriel’s head on the chopping block. Uriel clearly knew this too, she was never stupid. He stared at her in open mouthed silence. 

Could Crowley be redeemed?  _ Would he want to be?  _ No. He wouldn’t. He was perfect as he was. Still, what would it mean for Heaven if demons could somehow find their way back into Her Grace? Aziaphale couldn’t imagine another demon like Crowley, but could he truly be the only exception? Uriel obviously couldn’t be sure. This was extremely dangerous research for her.

“I will give you the file, all the information I have on what happened over there, if you want it,” Uriel said finally, sounding tired. “Then I will leave it in your hands, Aziraphale. I’m not able to pursue this further.”

“Give me the file.”

Uriel manifested a thin folder and held it out for him, and Aziraphale only hesitated briefly before taking it.

“Good luck to you then, “Uriel began, fidgeting with her jacket once more. “This is...it's a nice shop.”

“Er...thank you,” Aziraphale stammered, looking up from the file. Uriel was already gone.

**___________________**

  
  
  
  


It was too bright. 

Crowley tried to keep to shadowed cracks between rocks and roots as he wound his way slowly upwards.

Everything hurt. He’d woken with a sharp burning in his chest but the agony was a blessing. It stole his breath and kept him from crying out. The Fright was looking away as Crowley slid into snake form and cowered under a rock in terror. When the creature turned back its angelic eyes shone black once more as it searched for him. 

It could have been a trick, but Crowley seized the hope, no matter how fragile, that he was somehow harder to track as a snake. He moved slowly, inching his way out of the cave, pulling the battered length of himself along as he followed some instinct that said only  _ up. _

Up was further from Hell. Up was enough for Crowley.

The sun was bright overhead and it stung, blinding the demon, making him roll, rubbing his head in the dirt or pressing his face against the underside of rocks whenever the pain became too intense. 

He slithered on, staying small, staying quiet, trying to find a way  _ up _ .

_ Wait. _

_ Was that? _

_ Vibrations. _

_ Footsteps? _

_ It’s coming closer. _

Crowley tucked in under the jut of granite and coiled in tight, still as death, his head buried under himself instead of poised ready to strike. If he had to strike then it was already too late. There would be no fighting. There was only hiding. There was only  _ up. _

**___________________________**

  
  


It really was beautiful. 

Aziraphale looked out over the mountains and canyons and wished he could appreciate them better. He wished Crowley were at his side. The demon would complain —would feel compelled to complain— but Aziraphale would know Crowley found it lovely too.

Crowley was out there somewhere in all that wilderness. He must be. 

"Oh! Hello!"

Aziraphale spun around in surprise at the voice, stunned to be looking at the fluffy hair and light blue eyes of his twin.

"Are you looking for Crowley as well?" the double asked, delicately picking his way closer to the angel, lifting his jacket clear of a low scraggly branch.

"I…" Aziraphale stammered, falling back a step in alarm. He feared for a moment that some other angel had been given a corporation like his, but surely Uriel would know if that were the case. And now that the creature was closer, Aziraphale could sense this was no angel. Far from it. The menace that emanated from the prim and tidy apparition belied the warm, friendly smile. "I'm sorry, but...what exactly are you?"

"Oh, dear me. Please, don't apologize. That's entirely my fault," the man flushed in embarrassment. "I'm what is called a Fright, my dear."

Aziraphale blinked. He was unfamiliar with this terminology, but it certainly didn't sound  _ good. _

"You're a demon?" he asked, desperate for some kind of clarity.

"Well spotted," it beamed at him, pleased. "I've been summoned for the express purpose of tormenting our dear Crowley. I'm afraid he's slithered off though. I was on his trail when I noticed you. I thought it would be polite to introduce myself."

Aziraphale felt his blood drain from his suddenly cold face. He listened to the creature prattle on, deeply disturbed by the ease in which the demon explained itself to him. He was a Principality, an angel of the Lord. A demon should be attacking him or cowering from him. It certainly shouldn't be speaking to him as an equal, as if he were about to ask Aziraphale to join him for tea so that they might compare notes. Aziraphale shook himself out of his shock when the demon flashed a comforting smile and offered a polite handshake saying, "I'm Aziraphale. Guardian of the Eastern Gate and part time rare-bookseller."

"You absolutely are  _ not!" _ Aziraphale shouted. "You don’t even sound remotely like me!”

“Not even remotely?” The imposter looked insulted, giving the hem of his waistcoat a tug. Aziraphale realized he had been doing the same thing and immediately dropped his hands to his sides. The Fright smiled warmly at him. “I’m sorry to tell you that as far as Crowley is concerned, I look and sound very much like you.”

“You’re a reflection of how Crowley sees me?” Aziraphale frowned. What had this creature been up to while pretending to be him?

“Like this, yes. For the most part,” the demon agreed. “Although another few weeks and I’m sure we’ll move on to something more like this,” he added, vanishing his clothing and standing before Aziraphale in the nude. The angel stumbled again, his shoe sliding in the loose rock as he looked away.

“Good Lord,” he grumbled, mortified.

“Do you not like it? I thought it would be a fair approximation,” the demon continued. He smiled wider at Aziraphale’s blush. “Oh, I see. Of course you’d be disgusted by the thought of a demon touching you like this. He hasn’t yet, you know.”

“No?” Aziraphale was a little hurt.

“Much too afraid still,” the Fright sighed, returning to fully clothed. “I haven’t fully been able to get him to relax again, even when he’s returning my kisses.”

Aziraphale gasped. Kisses! This thing had  _ kissed _ Crowley! He glared at the vile creature, feeling his halo burning within him with divine wrath.

“If you think that wearing my face will prevent me from smiting you back to Hell, you are woefully mistaken,” he seethed.

“Won’t work,” the Fright informed him, inspecting his nails distractedly. He pulled a pale handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at a spot of dirt on his thumb. “I have a thread of your own power. They used it to create me. As powerful as a Principality is, I’m fairly certain you can’t actually harm me. Terribly sorry to disappoint.”

Aziraphale unleashed his wrath. The sky cracked around them in answer to the angel’s rage but the Fright remained unfazed. Aziraphale regarded him warily, realizing he was sorely in need of a plan B. 

“Interesting,” the Fright tilted his head, watching Aziraphale closely. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped closer to the angel, pursing his lips as he seemed to study the angel. “There’s something not quite…  _ holy _ about you, my dear,” he mused. 

Aziraphale held his breath.

“Yes...there,” the Fright nodded, staring through Aziraphale. “A little bit of demonic energy. Almost like a residue inside your body...How scandalous!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale growled, stepping past the infernal creature. If he couldn’t banish the demon then he’d just have to find Crowley before he did and get them both away, come up with a plan together.

“Not just any demonic energy either,” the Fright grinned, following him. “Crowley’s energy! Inside  _ you _ !”

“Do be quiet,” Aziraphale snapped. “I’m not listening to you.”

“Crowley,” the demon chuckled. “Imagine that. The very demon I was specially designed to torment. Inside  _ you _ . That is just so interesting.”

Aziraphale froze, a horrible dread creeping up his spine. He turned back to the Fright, heart suddenly in his throat.

“What are you going on about?” he faltered, trying to hide his unease and realizing he’d done a poor job of it.

“Oh, you’re a clever angel,” the demon smiled beatifically. “I’m sure you know what’s happening now.”

“No,” Aziraphale denied him. He reached back for his holy power. He would not let this happen. “No. Get out of my mind this instant, you vile monster!”

“You have no idea how monstrous I can be, dear boy, but you will,” his reflection answered with a dreadful calm. “Now I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I do believe our dear demon is about to poke his head out.”

The air sucked in, filling the space formerly occupied by the Fright. Aziraphale pressed a shaking hand against his chest, feeling suddenly faint. 

_ Oh, God no. Crowley. _

**_________________________**

  
  


Crowley was running out of up. He’d twisted and wound his way on a steady incline for what felt like hours. He was running out of energy and would need to find a cool place to rest, but letting his guard down was just too dangerous. 

_ Don’t sleep _ , he negotiated with himself.  _ Just cool off and rest a bit _ . 

He hadn’t seen the Fright since he’d left the cave. Maybe the creature was overwhelmed by being topside. Crowley wasn’t sure if Frights often left Hell. His understanding was that they were used for eternal punishments. Maybe his Fright was out of his depth here. Maybe Crowley could use that to get away. He flicked his tongue, searching for some place cool, maybe some water. 

Nothing. 

He was too exposed up here, he’d have to go back down the way he’d come. There had been a large pile of loose rocks, likely from a slide from a recent heavy rainfall. He’d be able to tuck himself in under there for a while.

“Ah, there’s my dear boy!”

Crowley nearly fainted. He’d been careful! He’d stopped every few feet to feel for vibrations. He was sure he’d lost the monster.

He reared up, hissing and flashing his fangs. It was pointless, but it was all he could think to do.

The Fright smiled down at him fondly. “You’ve gone and exhausted yourself again, Crowley,” he sighed. “And such nasty looking teeth! Are you honestly trying to frighten  _ me _ ?”

Soft hands enveloped Crowley’s body. He twisted and struck, sinking his fangs deep into the fright’s forearm, feeling the squeeze behind his eyes as venom pulsed through the bite.

“Immune, my dear,” the Fright chided. “Do please stop being silly. Look at this beautiful vista! Why, we must be 30 metres up or more. Just look at that drop off, Crowley!”

Crowley had felt that there was a ledge nearby, he’d been trying to avoid it for the last three hours as he wound his way up the mountain. Suddenly he was airborne as the Fright carelessly tossed him toward it. The world spun around him rapidly and Crowley panicked, switching quickly back to human form so he could grab at something to save himself. He hit a bit of the outcropping at the edge of the cliff and scrabbled madly at the heavy roots twisting along the rocks. His momentum slowed and finally his bloodied fingers caught purchase just below the ledge, a sturdy loop of root.

“AHhh, SHIT!” Crowley shrieked, kicking his legs against air, nothing below him but a very long drop. The soil above him shifted, dropping sand across his face and stinging his eyes. The Fright leaned over the edge to look at him, and then at the ground below, and gave a low whistle.

“Long way down, love,” the Fright grinned. “But don’t worry. You’ve fallen further.”

Crowley screamed again, feeling his grip slipping, trying to readjust, failing to find the strength to pull himself up. He hung precariously from sweaty, blood-slick fingers around a crumbling bit of soil and roots. His feet kicked again but there was nothing to cling to.

“Please,” he begged, looking up at the Fright in terror. It rolled its eyes and extended a hand. It was a trick. Of course, it was going to be a trick, but Crowley was rapidly running out of options. He started sorting the logistics of how to reach up without immediately plummeting when the Fright suddenly looked up and off to the side, dropping his offered hand.

“Help me!” Crowley cried, feeling himself start to slip. The Fright vanished. Crowley felt a desperate sob claw its way out of his throat.  _ Not this. Not like this. Not falling. Please Someone. Anything but falling. _

His arms burned with exhaustion but he had to at least try to reach the ledge above him. He grit his teeth and screamed again, thrusting his damp palm up past the root.

He found only loose stone and air. He was falling.

**_______________**

  
  


The shriek of profanity echoed over the landscape, giving Aziraphale something to orient his search to. Damning the rules, he took to the wing, gaining altitude and speed, searching for his demon. Another cry. Aziraphale adjusted his course, scanning the mountain side as he flew.

_ Keep calling out, my dear. I’m coming. _

“Help me!” Crowley cried, and there — there he was, hanging off the side of a cliff. Aziraphale curled a wing in to drop in a bid for increased speed, but then something collided with him and he was tumbling in a tangle of white wings. Heart in his throat, Aziraphale managed to disengage and halt his descent, flapping higher again and trying to get his bearings. Crowley. Where was Crowley? There. Still hanging on.

“Oh come on, angel, let him fall,” came a horribly familiar voice. The Fright’s wings were exactly the same brilliant white as Aziraphale’s as he swept up before the angel to block him.

“After all, he’s so good at it,” the demon added.

“He does have wings, you imbecile,” Aziraphale snapped angrily. “I am going to bring him home.”

“Does he have wings?” The Fright’s smirk was discouraging. “Does he remember that, do you suppose?”

There came another scream, surprise and terror and loss.

“Seems he doesn’t,” the demon sang. 

Aziraphale snapped his wings up and raced for Crowley only to be hit across the middle and sent spinning again. Aziraphale roared in rage, kicking savagely at the demon accosting him. Finally he freed himself once more. The monster matched his speed and course, but didn’t collide with him again.

“That’s not the right way,” the Fright chuckled at him. “You’re all flustered and off course. Come. This way!”

The demon flew off a few degrees to the north and Aziraphale saw a surprised flock of birds lifting off from somewhere far below. Startled, no doubt, by Crowley’s impact. 

Aziraphale saw the cliff and landed beside the Fright. The creature leaned out over the edge looking down, but Aziraphale turned away. 

“Oh wow,” the Fright winced dramatically. “What a mess.” 

A violent sob shook from the angel’s chest, and he wailed, dropping to his knees on the mountainside. His anguish echoed across the range, more birds took flight.


	4. The Specialist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May I ask another question then?” 
> 
> “I don’t see any harm,” the Fright smiled and put his book down. Aziraphale frowned, because the Fright really didn’t seem to see any harm in giving the angel information and that was... distressing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting Earlier so people can read the whole thing before Halloween. The schedule is now just "when I feel like it" >_<
> 
> CW for non/con touching and kissing.  
> And violence, obviously.

Aziraphale found himself being guided down the mountainside. The Fright gently took his elbow, warning him about loose stones, catching him whenever his knees gave out under the weight of his grief. The monster made sympathetic noises and led the angel to the shelter of a cave near the foot of the range. He was sat on a large rock at the back of the cave, given a cup of fresh water (which he ignored) and then left in peace.

Aziraphale had let it happen. He’d let the demon version of himself touch him, help him down the mount. He’d been too shocked with grief and rage to do anything else. Reality seemed to be coming at him from some watery distance. Time seemed more unreal than usual.

Crowley was gone. 

He’d never once contemplated a world without Crowley in it. Odd, perhaps, considering both their existences were very badly threatened only just recently, but even then Aziraphale had been so certain they’d be successful. Agnes hadn’t predicted their survival, but why warn them, advise them on their best course, unless she were at least fairly certain herself?

Crowley had been beside himself with nerves, all the while drinking steadily and bantering about with full bravado the way he did when he was especially terrified. Aziraphale had sat there on his uncomfortable couch, slightly itchy in his new corporation, definitely tired and heartbroken over the loss of the bookshop. He imagined he could smell the smoke, the scent of burned paper. He soon realized the smoke smell was coming from Crowley. The demon was stained with soot! Aziraphale had assumed it was from the Bentley (Oh, Crowley’s dear car!), and perhaps some of it was, but now he remembered that Crowley had run into the burning shop to fetch him out. He’d risked discorporation to save him. He’d taken the book of prophecy as a souvenir, because he thought Aziraphale had died, or been taken away. He must have felt so terribly alone.

_ 'Did it feel like this? _ ’ Aziraphale wondered, staring bleakly out the mouth of the cave at a landscape he didn’t recognize. It made sense this nightmare would happen in a vast and unfamiliar landscape. The world was a stranger to him now. 

“Steady, dear,” he heard his own voice float up to him from beyond the cave. “Here we are.” The Fright reappeared, carrying Crowley in his arms. The limp body seemed feather-light as the monster gently laid it out. Crowley’s red hair was dark and matted down with blood, his eyes were closed, which Aziraphale took as a kindness. The image of himself kneeling over the body of his best friend was too much. It blurred beyond recognition as tears filled the angel’s eyes and he sobbed, unashamed. It didn’t matter if the Fright saw him like this. What did he care about dignity now? He’d find a way to avenge Crowley somehow, but for now there was no room left for plans. There were only howling winds of grief.

Head throbbing, Aziraphale rubbed the tears from his face to find the tableau before him had changed. The Fright was still kneeling over Crowley’s body, cradling his head, but now he was holding a cup to the body’s lips.

Aziraphale shot to his feet at once in dismay. Crowley’s bloodied fingers trembled as his hand slowly rose to the cup.

_ He’s alive! He’s here! _

“Crowley!” Aziraphale choked, staggering forward in desperation only to bump up against some unnoticed boundary, an invisible wall between him and his demon. Grief finally gave way to rage, and Aziraphale threw himself against the unseen barrier, screaming out his fury, but the Fright was unimpressed. He merely smiled serenely before cupping his hand to his ear to pantomime not being able to hear the angel. Was the barrier soundproof? Was the Fright preventing Crowley from hearing him?

The Fright stood abruptly, letting Crowley crumple back to the cave floor, and left once more. A faint moan emanated from the broken body, and Aziraphale tried once again to cross the barrier, to shout for his friend, to assure him he was there. Crowley fell silent again, still as death.

An hour passed, Aziraphale keeping track of time with his watch. The Fright finally returned carrying a large clear plastic tub of water. A cloth and bar of yellow soap bobbed cheerfully on the surface.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, my dearest,” the Fright murmured to Crowley and began to undress the demon. Aziraphale glared at his counterpart as it peeled away the bloody layers one by one. The glare became a wide-eyed litany of outraged shouting when the Fright continued on to remove Crowley’s underclothes. Once Crowley was naked the Fright summoned a light coloured plaid blanket under them (Aziraphale bristled at the pattern choice) and immediately began to lather the cloth against the bar of soap. 

Blood and grime came away from Crowley’s pale skin with thorough swipes. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched unconsciously as he watched his counterpart pull lather through soft-looking crimson hair, using the cup to rinse the scalp clean. The water came away dark pink before being absorbed into the blanket.

The Fright gently cleaned Crowley’s face, down his neck and chest, his arms and hands. Finally he paused his work to look up toward Aziraphale with a knowing smile. Aziraphale fussed with his watch chain and stared back, furious. Crowley was gently rolled over onto his stomach then and the Fright resumed his careful washing of the demon’s back. He skipped over the round buttocks and cleaned the blood from his feet and legs, but eventually only the pelvis remained to be done and here the Fright paused again to smile horribly over at Aziraphale.

“I will destroy you for this,” Aziraphale promised him.

“I really don’t care,” the Fright responded mildly, and ran the cloth over Crowley’s narrow hips, the firm buttocks, and the space between, making Aziraphale sweat and twitch in embarrassment and anger. Crowley was rolled over again and the washing continued, but Aziraphale looked away, to preserve the demon’s modesty.

“Such a lovely effort you’ve made, dear,” the Fright cooed to Crowley. “Every inch of you is lovely. You could almost be an angel, with your eyes closed, of course.”

Aziraphale hated him. He hadn’t felt anything so vile as the hatred burning at the back of his throat. The Fright dried the blanket again and wrapped Crowley up in it then built a fire near the mouth of the cave. Aziraphale watched Crowley carefully, saw the weak rise and fall of his breath, wished desperately that he could pull the frail being against his chest and hold him tightly, protect him in the circle of his arms, his wings, his newfound fury.

As if reading his mind, the Fright returned to Crowley and carried him closer to the fire before settling down again with the wrapped demon on his lap. He cuddled Crowley against him and stroked his face and hair. He smiled fondly down at him and tenderly kissed his lips. Crowley began to stir.

“Mmnnnngle?” he whimpered. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the weak, plaintive sound.

“I’m here, Crowley,” the Fright assured him. 

Aziraphale threw himself against the barrier again. “It’s not me, Crowley!” he screamed. “I’m over here! That isn’t  _ me _ !”

“Easy, love,” the Fright whispered, kissing Crowley again, this time on the corner of the mouth. The demon’s chin rose slightly, as if chasing the kiss. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

“Hhhhurts,” Crowley croaked. “Cold.”

“I know, dear,” the Fright consoled him, summoning another blanket and pulling it over Crowley before wrapping his arms around him again. “Let me warm you up a bit,” he added with a sly look for the angel.

“Don’t you bloody dare!” Aziraphale growled.

The Fright kissed Crowley again, soft and sweet and to Aziraphale’s confusion and horror, Crowley opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, before breaking off with a sob.

"You're not 'im," Crowley whimpered, turning his head away.

"Ah ha!" Aziraphale laughed, victorious. "He sees through you, villain!"

The Fright continued to stroke Crowley's hair as the demon shivered in his lap. The imposter didn't seem remotely put out by Crowley's perceptiveness.

"Of course it's me, dear," the Fright assured him, but he was watching Aziraphale now, smiling cruelty. Aziraphale frowned, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Mmn," Crowley grimaced before shaking his head. "Wish it could be but…'ziraphale'd never kiss me." Aziraphale felt his heart crack in his chest. "Dead giveaway that," Crowley added mournfully, and the Fright grinned.

"True," he chuckled warmly, gently petting Crowley's damp hair. "What was it he called you?  _ A  _ 'corruption'."

"I didn't mean  _ you _ , Crowley!" Aziraphale cried. " _ You _ were never the corruption. It was Hell itself. I wasn't prepared for how it would affect me. I'm so sorry I wasn't stronger!"

"Shhh," the Fright shushed Aziraphale while pretending to comfort Crowley. The fiend placed his lips against the sweet demon's temple and Crowley finally opened his eyes. Aziraphale gasped at the vibrancy of their golden colour in the firelight. He'd forgotten how beautiful those eyes were. Crowley kept them obscured more often than not, and Aziraphale had found it safer not to notice the beauty, the few times the shades came off.

" _ He _ will never touch you. You're a demon, Crowley. Nothing but a blight on the world," the Fright sighed in an exaggerated tone of sympathy. Aziraphale was inspired to smack the barrier with his fist in outrage at that.

"But I'm here, my love," the Fright gushed. Crowley looked at him finally, despondent. "I'm the closest you'll ever come to having what you most want."

"You keep killing me," Crowley argued, and although his voice was weak, his sarcasm still prevailed. Aziraphale eased down to the floor to better see his poor friend. At least he still had his sarcasm. Surely that was a good sign.

"And I will continue to, dearest," the Fright nodded. “But in the meantime, doesn’t this feel nice? Wouldn’t you like the opportunity, even just to pretend?”

Crowley grimaced again, pale lips drawn back, white fangs clenched tightly. His golden eyes shone brighter as he glared up at the Fright. Aziraphale stared at him in wonder, so beautiful and wild and brave. Then the shine in the demon’s eyes shifted and Aziraphale saw that they were bright, not with fury, but with tears. They broke the surface of his red-rimmed eyelids and rolled over sharp cheekbones, dripped from the cliff of his chin. Aziraphale cried with him, invisible and mute, powerless to give comfort to the one most owed.

“Tired,” Crowley wept. “Angel, I’m sorry. I’m weak. I want too much. I’m —”

“Shush, my dear,” the Fright soothed, and brushed Crowley’s trembling lips with his own. Crowley mewled against the kiss, long fingers shaking as they twisted into the back of the Fright’s soft jacket, white fluffy curls. The kiss deepened, and Aziraphale shouted and sobbed and flailed against the walls of his prison. Crowley had surrendered, and the angel couldn’t blame him for seeking any comfort he could find in this nightmare, but it hurt too. The Serpent was snogging a Hell-born facsimile of him in an American desert instead of being tucked in the comfortable flat above the bookshop, snarking about Aziraphale’s choices of furnishings between...well… identical bouts of snogging.

Not identical, Aziraphale reminded himself. Aziraphale actually loved Crowley. He’d do anything to prove it to him, to protect him in the circle of his strength, his wings, his love, his very life. The least he could do was swallow his bloody pride.

“Uriel,” he prayed. “Archangel, come to me. I am ready to repent.”

He repented, not loving a demon, but hiding that love, fearing that it was wrong. He was ready to be held to account for all the harm he’d done to a lovely creature who had suffered quite enough without his piling on. Aziraphale’s weakness had driven Crowley here, had exposed him so that Hell could take advantage. Aziraphale had betrayed their side.

He understood now what Crowley had meant about being unforgivable.

“Uriel,” he sent the prayer up, out, in. “Uriel,  _ please… _ ”

“Did you really believe that a prison capable of holding a Principality would let  _ prayers  _ through?”

Aziraphale sighed as he looked up at the smug Fright. Crowley slept in the blanket near the fire, unaware of them once again. The Fright summoned up a dead match for Aziraphale’s favourite chair from the shop and primly sat down facing the caged angel.

“Apologies for the undignified display of affection,” he sighed, wiping his kiss-swollen lips with a handkerchief. “It’s the job, unfortunately.” He shrugged at Aziraphale then summoned up a book and a bottle of sherry with two glasses. 

“What does he see?” Aziraphale asked finally when glaring acridly at his monstrous mirror image yielded no favourable results. The Fright looked up from his book, confused. “Crowley,” Aziraphale prompted, although it was obvious who he meant. “Does he not see that he’s in a bloody cave in front of a campfire? Does it not break your little illusion?”

“It doesn’t seem to matter,” the Fright shrugged. “If we were in Hell it would be easier to create the appearance of your shop, or other London haunts, but now I wonder if we even need to bother. Seems at this point he’s so exhausted and confused he can’t be arsed about it so why should I?"

“I see. May I ask another question then?” 

“I don’t see any harm,” the Fright smiled and put his book down. Aziraphale frowned, because the Fright really  _ didn’t  _ seem to see any harm in giving the angel information and that was... distressing.

“How is Crowley here? A fall from that height ought to have discorporated him.” It had taken Aziraphale a shamefully long time to pick up on this detail. He’d been so happy to see Crowley alive, and then so distracted by the Fright that he didn’t realize what had been nagging the back of his brain about the demon’s resurrection. “By all accounts he should be back in Hell, and you’d have no further purpose here.”

“That raises a fascinating question, actually,” the Fright pondered. “I mean, obviously I can’t let him discorporate just yet, now that you’re here. I assume he survived the smiting simply because I’m not a real angel, and didn’t have enough power to do more than torture him.” He laughed then, a shrill peal of delight. “Oh, it was glorious agony though, dear. You would have loved it.”

“I’m fairly certain I would not have done,” Aziraphale growled. “And what do you mean you can’t let him discorporate? What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re not honestly that daft, Aziraphale,” the Fright intoned dryly. “Keeping you and Crowley together is the only way I can torment you both. If he descends to Hell then I can continue to torture him there, although I suspect my services won’t be required anymore. However, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull  _ you  _ down with us.”

Aziraphale blinked, once again surprised by the ease in which the Fright gave away crucial information. “You can trap me, but you can’t do much else to me, can you?”

The Fright sighed and shrugged. “Nope. I can’t heal your body or prevent your discorporation from its injuries. If you die you’ll just whoosh on up to Heaven and be their problem. I wasn’t created to torment you, Aziraphale. I’m just taking advantage of an unexpected loophole.”

“Then you might as well release me,” Aziraphale snapped. “Now that I know I’ve nothing to fear from you.”

“Shhhh,” the Fright shushed. “He’s waking up dear. Forgive me, I must return to work.”

Crowley stirred, groaned, and slowly sat up. He looked blearily at the blanket behind him and seemed to notice for the first time that he was naked. The Fright snapped and summoned him a fresh black outfit like the one he’d worn before.

“There you are, dear. Put on your kit and come join me for some sherry,” the blasted Fright seemed to be wooing him! “I could read to you, if you like.”

“Yeah, ‘kay,” Crowley sighed and started the laborious task of squeezing into those trousers. This was painful to watch, so Aziraphale resolved not to. He returned to his sitting rock and sulked, thinking furiously. If he couldn’t pray for aid, or force his way out of this prison, he’d have to find a way to trick the blasted creature into releasing him.

“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley groaned behind him. Aziraphale snapped his head up and stared over his shoulder as the Fright passed Crowley an empty glass and picked up the bottle. He called the Fright  _ ‘Angel’ _ ! Was the demon confused again, or had he just surrendered to the nightmare? 

The imposter smiled warmly at Crowley as he cut the foil away, twisting a screw into the cork and pulling it free with ease, freeing the cork afterwards and tossing it into the fire. He made a show of pouring his glass and Aziraphale could almost see Crowley’s mouth watering. He must have been so parched for normalcy.

The Fright swirled the sherry, sniffed it, then tasted it, smiling. “Mmm, perfect. Now you, dear.”

Crowley lifted his glass. The Fright lashed out, plunging the corkscrew deep into Crowley’s pale throat. Crowley’s eyes flew wide in shock, Aziraphale screamed in horror, lunging at the wall of his prison all over again. The Fright was merciless, wrenching the instrument free of Crowley’s neck with a sickening sound of tearing flesh and an arching spray of blood.

Crowley gripped his wound, eyeing the Fright helplessly. The Fright smiled placidly and rested the rim of Crowley’s glass against the hollow of his throat, collecting the blood as it pooled.

Crowley’s knees gave out and he collapsed to the ground just shy of Aziraphale’s cage. The Fright was sipping the blood from the glass now.

“You can really taste the smoky notes. A bit of an acquired taste, these old vintages,” the Fright joked. “Hmm, should have let it breathe, shouldn’t I? 

Aziraphale couldn’t look away from Crowley, struggling weakly before him. He kept trying to reach out, touching the wall of air between them. The blood was not bound by any celestial prison, however, and pooled before him, soaking into his trousers. The bleeding didn’t stop. Crowley weakened, but didn’t pass out. It went on forever.

“Interesting fact about immortals under the control of Frights,” the monster was saying above them. It was impossible to tell if he was mocking Crowley or Aziraphale. The angel suspected it might well be both. “They can’t die. Not until the Fright decides they can. You’ll just go on bleeding forever and never lose consciousness. Imagine!” 

Aziraphale glared up at the beast, and met his own grey-eyed gaze. The imposter smiled, and offered him the glass of blood in mockery. “Did you really think I needed to strike you to hurt you? Look at you!”

Aziraphale understood. He was a mess. Tears ran down his cheeks, his hands and knees were coated in Crowley’s blood. He was a captive witness to his dearest friend’s suffering and he’d never known such anguish. The Fright would go on torturing Crowley as he was designed to, while Aziraphale’s horror was merely a byproduct.

The Fright sipped the blood once more, savouring it as Aziraphale would a fine burgundy. “You know, I think I can still sense that faint aroma of angel under all that smokiness. His type always break so beautifully. Original stock. Think they’re so much better than the rest of us Hellspawn.”

That was interesting. A schism in Hell? Something he could use?

“Are you not a proper demon then?” he asked, trying his best to sneer. The Fright merely laughed.

“Oh dear me, no,” he answered, amused. “I’m something much worse, my dear boy. Created by Hell itself to cultivate fear and agony in a single subject.” He looked down at the demon choking on blood at his feet and smirked. “Crowley here once referred to Frights as... What was it again, darling?”

Crowley made a horrible fearful sound and Aziraphale felt himself on the verge of panic. “Ah yes. ‘Bloody useless unitaskers’.” His pale eyes shone with malice as he poured the blood out of the glass and dropped it, letting it shatter. “Well, I can’t refute the last part, but I much prefer the term ‘specialist’.”

The Fright reached down and grabbed Crowley roughly by the front of his shirt, hauling him upright. The bleeding slowed, and the monster licked along Crowley’s throat, closing the wound with a wide black tongue.

“Do you still have such a dull opinion of Frights, my darling?” he asked the limp demon. Crowley whimpered and shook his head. “What are we, my sweet?”

“Sssspecialists,” Crowley whispered, strained. 

“Such a good boy,” the Fright murmured, kissing Crowley back under his spell. Aziraphale shook in rage and horror as that black tongue entered his demon’s mouth, pulling a faint moan from Crowley’s lips. The blood soaking through his clothing was cold and sticky and the angel retreated to the shadows at the back of his prison, trying to shut out the sounds of weaponized love.


	5. Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, love. Eat up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW emetophobia/vomiting, forced eating, eating non-food substances as torture.

Consciousness was a slippery thing. Crowley flitted in and out of it, pushed up or under like flotsam in a storm. HIs opinion on consciousness was just as fickle. He liked the reminder that he was still alive (somehow), and his hind-brain urged him to wake up, warning him of danger, begging him to flee. But there wasn’t any escape, not yet, and without the hope of escape the only thing wakefulness brought was terror and agony.

_ And this sweet press of lips. _

_ Warm, soft hands trailing lightly over his cheek, holding his hip. _

_ Slick, hot tongue darting into his mouth as he sighed. _

_ This is good _ , his body reminded him. His body was stupid. It remembered the pain in an abstract way, deprioritized it, shuffled fear to the background to focus on this.  _ This is good. More of this. _

Crowley groaned plaintively, hands balling up into a soft waistcoat, uncertain if he was trying to push away or claw himself closer. Maybe it didn’t matter. He was awake. 

At any moment this soft, liquid comfort was bound to turn sharp and horrible, but for now it was so,  _ so  _ good.

“Darling,” the velvet voice sighed. Crowley nuzzled closer to it, rubbing his cheek into the soft skin.

“Angel,” he answered. Distantly he knew this was false. He knew.  _ He knew _ . He didn’t care.

“Do you love me, my darling boy?” his angel asked. Crowley arched into the plush warmth before him, desperate for more touch.

“Yesssss,” he insisted. “So much, Zira. So much, Please.”

Another kiss, deeper this time. Crowley realized he hadn’t once opened his eyes. He wasn't sure when he’d started keeping them shut. It seemed too difficult a habit to break now. Easier to pretend if he shut everything out but the touch. It was fine to see the angel. He’d  _ love  _ to see the angel, but this wasn’t him.

It would never be him.

“Are you hungry, my love?” the voice asked, tracing featherlight touches along his throat. “I know you don’t care for food the way I do, but it’s been over two weeks since you’ve eaten anything. You need to keep up your strength, dear.”

Crowley’s stomach growled loudly. Traitor. It  _ never  _ did that. Of course he always tried to eat something at least every few days, but the stomach growling was just embarrassing. It felt like an over-share. It felt like weakness. He already had too much of that. He nodded, though, because there was nothing for it at this point. A noise that loud would have been picked up, and the Fright was in his brain anyway so there wasn’t any point in lying about it.

“I have just the thing,” Aziraphale sang, and Crowley braced for something awful. He finally had no choice but to open his eyes. He blinked and squinted against the invasive sunlight. It must have been near midday. He lifted a hand to shade his sensitive eyes, even while in the cave, giving himself a chance to adjust. The Fright, still wearing the angel’s visage, was beckoning him over to the mouth of the cave. Crowley hesitated, and looked behind him towards the back of the cave.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt like  _ something _ was back there, invisible. Watching him. He could see easily into the dark corners, even at night, but still the feeling persisted. He tried to tell himself it was paranoia. His mind was playing tricks on him, exhausted and traumatized. The Fright was the real threat. Loving and sweet and warm right up until he was dragging Crowley to the creek and holding his head under the water until he gasped in lungfuls of water and drowned, or held his face over the campfire until even his fireproof skin started to sear, or just beat him over and over and over until the bones shifted in his face and he was blind from it. He’d sleep. He’d wake to kisses and cuddles and warmth and it would all start over again.

And the shadows at the back of the cave still terrified him. Something unknown lurked there, waiting. As horrible as the Fright was, he preferred him to the nameless horror haunting that part of the cave.

Crowley knew well enough to keep schtum about it. The Fright didn’t need more ammunition. He knew what Crowley knew, and the redhead was sure he’d learn what waited there sooner or later, but he was determined for it to be later. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself at a sudden chill. He could see the wavy apparition of heat rising outside. It probably wasn’t a great sign that he was so cold.

“Come along, lazy bones,” Aziraphale — No. The Fright — the Fright teased with a lovely little giggle. “Come and eat.”

Crowley stood and immediately collapsed when his knees refused to hold. He landed awkwardly on his elbows, nearly smacking his face off the stoney floor. The Fright beckoned again and he crawled to the mouth of the cave. It would be worse if he was stubborn. It was always worse when he was stubborn.

“There you are, sweet thing,” The Fright cooed at him as he slumped against its leg. It gently threaded its fingers through Crowley’s hair and he hummed in response, closing his eyes at the touch. He liked this. He liked having his hair played with, the gentle stroke, scratch, tug, against his scalp.

“Come on, love. Eat up.”

Crowley opened his eyes again, blinking blearily. He looked around himself for some food. There was nothing. He shivered again, sensing further punishment ahead and looked up at the Fright imploringly.

“Eat,” the Fright told him again with a serene smile. He pointed his meticulous finger down at the ground. Crowley frowned and followed the gesture with his gaze, parting the stones with his hands, looking for worms or grubs or other insects. This wasn’t so bad. He originally planned on staying here as a snake. He’d figured he’d eat his share of insects if he couldn’t find a mouse or two. It didn’t phase him.

“No no, my dear,” the Fright corrected him. Crowley instinctively cringed, then looked back up for further direction. “Eat,” he was told again, pointing sternly at the ground. Crowley looked back down, confused. There was nothing there but rocks and stones.

“Eat,” the Fright demanded again. Crowley whined, slowly picking up a small stone. He waited for another correction,  _ hoped _ for another correction. None came. Hands shaking, he placed the stone in his mouth and waited. His eyes stung with unshed tears. This was going to be as humiliating as it would be painful.

“You’re a serpent,” the Fright mocked him, crouching beside him now, staring intently. “I know you can swallow it.”

Crowley did. It scraped on the way down and his stomach immediately rebelled, but he forced himself to breath through it. “Such a good boy,” the Fright smiled and handed him another rock.

Crowley shuddered and swallowed that one too. Next came a handful of sand, another two stones and so on.

“Dear me,” the Fright said finally. “You must be parched, my darling.”

Crowley’s throat was raw and bloody. His stomach was hard and heavy and he struggled to breathe. He was lying awkwardly on his side, the only position that was even remotely tolerable. His thirst was agonizing. He whimpered, afraid of this fresh torture.

‘Your poor throat. Would you like a cool drink of water?”

Crowley blinked back tears and forced himself to look up at the Fright. Kind blue eyes shone down at him as he pulled out a tartan thermos and a pair of welder’s gloves. Crowley’s limited control gave at the sight of it, breathless sobs pushing past his gritty lips as clean clear water poured into the little plastic lid. It looked so good, the sound of it was a siren song to his parched cells. He shook with the effort not to grab at the holy water and quaff it greedily. 

Although…

The Fright smiled gently at him and placed the plastic cup within Crowley’s reach. Crowley stared at it with wide eyes, but he was no longer sure if he was afraid, or hopeful.

“It has been fun, my dear,” the Fright sighed, sitting down beside him and gently petting his hair again. “I’ve had an exquisite time with you. However, all good things, as they say. I really ought to be getting back for a fresh assignment. You understand.”

Crowley tried to gasp but his lungs wouldn’t fully inflate. This too hurt. Leaving the world would hurt. Leaving Aziraphale (the real Aziraphale) would hurt. He eyed the holy water and trembled. He’d thought about it before. Of course he had. But now, even with everything he’d been put through. Even though it meant he’d be spared an eternity in Hell. He didn’t want to go.

“I’ll stay with you, of course,” the Fright assured him. “However long you want to wait. I’ll be with you every single moment until you’re ready. You just take your time, dear.”

The Fright gave him another sweet smile then lifted his shining white head to look back into the cave. To look at whatever lurked in there.

Cold swam through Crowley’s blood at the silent confirmation that he had been right. Something more waited for him there. No. He couldn’t do it.  _ No more _ .

“Sssry, Nnngle,” he choked, flecks of blood spraying from his lips from his bleeding throat. He grabbed up the cup of holy water and tipped it into his mouth, swallowing mouthfuls, and the sweet sting of it felt amazing. 

Nothing happened.

He lapped at the water at the bottom of the cup, whining and whimpering and begging now to dissolve and nothing bloody happened. The Fright was laughing and it didn’t sound at all like Aziraphale now. The mockery was horrendous.

“You stupid idiotic fool,” he teased. “Did you truly believe I would ever let you go even to oblivion? Oh no my darling. We’re going to be together forever, you and I.”

*****

Crowley was throwing up rocks. He’d been throwing up rocks for the better part of an hour. Aziraphale sat in his prison watching numbly as his friend struggled to purge the detritus the Fright forced him to consume.

The trick with the holy water had been especially cruel. When Aziraphale had seen the thermos he’d cried out in alarm, sobbing and begging Crowley to stay. It was beyond selfish to wish it. Every moment he lingered here was another opportunity for torment. But hope remained, too, so long as Crowley was alive. Although Aziraphale still couldn’t think of a way out of this, the possibility remained that someday, somehow, they still could. As long as Crowley was still alive.

“It’s backwards logic,” the Fright opined, leaning against the cave wall watching Crowley heave up another bloody stone. “If the demon dies then you’ll probably go free. I already told you I’m unlikely to be able to drag you down with us.”

Aziraphale felt his brows draw together in consternation. He hated when the Fright read his mind.

“Ahhh... right,” the creature nodded. “You actually think you love him. You  _ don’t _ , you know. You’re just used to him. You’ll get used to someone else. Someone better.”

“Let him see me,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Why would I do that?” the monster smirked.

“He senses me,” Aziraphale insisted. He’d seen Crowley’s golden gaze flick to his prison over and over as the days passed. He tried to ignore the fear he saw in those wide eyes. “I demand you let him see me. Let me speak with him and then I’ll go. I'll leave you to your horrible work.”

The Fright seemed to consider that for a moment. “I have your word? You’ll just go. You won’t act against me?”

“You have my word,” Aziraphale promised.

But he didn’t mean it, and the Fright knew that too. It was all a game to the creature, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but try. He was desperate.

“Ok,” the Fright shrugged. Aziraphale blinked in surprise as the boundary of his prison fell away. Sure it was another trick, the angel tentatively reached his hand out. When it passed through unhindered, he slowly stepped over the dividing line and into the cave proper. He was free. He could feel that he was free.

“Uriel. Archangel of Repent— “

“Ah ah ah…” the Fright chided. “Prayers are still not allowed, angel. Say your piece and go.”

Crowley was looking up at him, holding his shaking hands over his stomach. He looked frail and afraid. Aziraphale was about to go to him when the Fright clasped a hand on his shoulder and grinned down at Crowley.

“Good news, my dearest,” he beamed, all false joy and sunshine. “Hell is so very pleased with you that they’ve sent another Aziraphale!”

The blood drained from the angel’s face as surely as it did from Crowley’s. 

_ You monster. _

“No,” Crowley cringed, falling away and gasping in pain. “Please ssstop.”

“It’s me, though,” Aziraphale assured him, pushing past the Fright to fall to his knees beside Crowley. The demon flinched and tried to scuttle backwards, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth. 

“No no no, pleassse,” Crowley cried.

“I’m not a Fright, Crowley dear,” Aziraphale whispered, horrified at the effect he was having on his dear friend. He was at a loss on how to prove his identity.

“This is going to be so much more efficient,” the Fright giggled excitedly, skipping around Crowley and kicking dust and grit at him. “I’ve had suuuch a grand time with the tormenting, brother mine. Since you’re freshly up, you can take over the gentle touchy rubbish. We’ll get twice as much done.”

“I’m not a bloody Fright!” Aziraphale insisted, trying to pull Crowley over to look at him. There must be a way to show him the truth. Crowley made a sick mewling sound of terror and curled in on himself. It was heartbreaking to realize that the Fright had eroded the demon’s trust so badly. How could he ever see Aziraphale as anything other than the root of his torment?

This wasn’t going to end. And Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave Crowley. He had no choice but to go back into his prison. 

Aziraphale held back a distressed sob and grabbed the frail demon tightly, pulling him in against his chest and kissing his dirty hair. Crowley shuddered violently, gasping in fear and pain but Aziraphale held him firmly, trying to will his love and adoration into Crowley’s brittle cracked bones.

“You must pray to Uriel,” Aziraphale whispered into the demon’s ear. “I’m being blocked but he might not expect you to call to an Archangel. You must call Uriel, Crowley. Please.”

Crowley bit him. Aziraphale recoiled in shock and pain and the demon instantly reverted to his snake form to drop out of the circle of the angel’s arms and slither away at speed. The Fright laughed and clapped his hands, delighted.

“Oh, my dears,” he chuckled, easily picking up the large stone Aziraphale had been using as a seat this past dreadful week. “That was truly wonderful.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, realizing the Fright’s intention, but it was too late. The rock came down hard on top of the snake, too quickly for Crowley to evade, and too quickly for Aziraphale to look away.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're turning it all around somehow with the next chapter.


	6. The Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was very far past done.
> 
> It was time to go home.
> 
> “I’ll discorporate,” he told Aziraphale. “I’ll return to Hell willingly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est finit! 
> 
> A reminder that the poll voted for a hopeful ending and I hope I have delivered. This has been my first attempt at writing horror since it isn't my usual genre and pushed me outside my comfort zone. Hopefully I didn't make too much of a hash of it. Please enjoy the conclusion of this Green Fox Spookmas Special.

He could feel the beat of his heart like a sharp prodding against his temples. Over and over. A constant jabbing pain in his head. Crowley wanted it to stop.

He could feel the gentle caress of soft hands over his back, gently playing with his hair. He could hear the whispered words of comfort. Crowley wanted it to stop.

The sun was shining through his eyelids so all he could see was red. He could do without that too.

He was very far past done. 

“When will this be over?” he whispered.

“Why would you want it to end?” Aziraphale asked, before Crowley felt plush lips press sweetly against his own. He didn’t return the kiss this time. He didn’t move at all. He’d had some time to think while he was slowly gluing himself together after the last spectacular death and he’d come to the realization that this was the worst part. This sweetness. Aziraphale. 

The torture, the death. That was just Hell. It was agonizing and would absolutely drive him mad (again), but he’d endured it before. All of the Fallen had. It was what made them demons, completed the corruption process and steeped them all in evil. Almost all, anyway. He’d just never got his programming right, that’s all. Maybe he hadn’t fully fallen all the way.  _ Sauntered _ , he liked to say, grinning to himself like he didn’t remember every second of his white wings burning up on the way down.

He hadn’t been a good angel. Aziraphale (the real Aziraphale) had put it succinctly. “ _ Your nature was corrupted from the very beginning, even before you were a demon. Why else would you have Fallen?” _

He was a broken thing even before. Before the Fall, the Pit, the lifetimes of burning torment. It had turned his brethren into monsters. It had changed him into this thing —The Serpent— but he never had the stomach for cruelty. He wasn’t really evil. Something had gone wrong.

He’d been broken before the Fall. He was broken afterwards too, weak, susceptible to more weakness. Susceptible to protective wings, and gentle eyes, and oysters, and grapes, and  _ Hamlet _ , and crepes and fussy hand-wringing. 

And love.

“Where’s the other angel?” he asked, turning his head away from the kisses. This was the worst part. Better to have the mean one back. Better to have his teeth kicked in than endure this a second more.

“There are no angels here, my dear,” the Fright whispered back. “Just you and I and our little dance.”

“You kiss me, you kill me. You pretend to be him,” Crowley recounted numbly. The numbness was relatively new. The  _ acceptance _ of his new existence. He remembered that too, finding that kernel of numbness in the Pit long before the Earth was formed. He curled himself around that coldness as the fires burned him black. It was all he had. 

He had it back now. He understood why. He was done.

“I’ve never pretended to be anything other than myself, sweet thing,” Aziraphale told him. 

It wasn’t Aziraphale, but it might well be. 

_ Your nature was corrupted from the very beginning. _

“I’m who I’ve always been, dear boy.”

_ That  _ was true, at least. The Fright was created to be Aziraphale. The only difference that would have mattered at his point was the constant murdering, but the murdering was no longer the worst part.

It was the sweetness in between. The reminder that he was broken. Broken for wanting this softness. An imperfect demon capable of love, but never deserving of it. A Corruption of both sides. (He was a fool to believe there was any other side.)

  
  


Yes, Crowley was very far past done.

It was time to go home.

“I’ll discorporate,” he told Aziraphale. “I’ll return to Hell willingly.”

“Oh, Would you?” the angel asked, delighted. “I would like to go back, although I fear we’d end up parting ways. No need for a Fright in the Pit.”

“I remember,” Crowley told him. He did. He always would. This felt like the correct course though. He wouldn’t like to ever admit to believing in predetermination, Serpent and all, but so much of his existence had the smack of Fate about it. The way he and Aziraphale had orbited each other for thousands of years. How they saved the World. How he loved (Oh, how he  _ loved _ !)

It had to be for a reason. It had to mean something.

If it did, maybe it was all wrapped up in the clink of champagne flutes and a chorus of “To the World”. The Great Plan for The Great War was suspended, his role was played and now the curtain was coming down.

He’d Fall once more into the Pit and burn for lifetimes and come out of it a demon. Maybe a proper demon this time, without the broken bits. This time he’d make sure to fall the whole way down.

“I’m ready,” he promised. 

He was. 

“Take me to the cliff.”

*****

“Crowley  _ please _ ! You mustn’t do this!” Aziraphale begged, choking on his sobs as he followed the demons up the mountainside. Crowley was so weak the Fright had to carry him like a child, his thin legs dangling over the monster’s arms, pale skin peeking through the tears in his jeans.

Crowley couldn’t hear him, but Azirphale begged anyway. The prison moved around the angel like a floating cage as the Fright climbed the mountain, pulling him along with them. He wouldn’t be allowed to miss this. He wouldn’t  _ want _ to miss this, as much as it would destroy him. If this was the last choice Crowley would ever make on this Earth, Azirpahale felt it was his duty to at least bear witness.

“There must be another way forward for us, dear Crowley,” he cried. “You must keep fighting. I will solve this! I will!” If his beloved demon could hear him he showed no sign. Was Aziraphale still hidden from his friend, or did Crowley simply no longer trust his senses?

The Fright looked over his shoulder at the angel and smiled. The monster looked ecstatic.

“Cheer up, my dear,” he said. “Soon you’ll be free.” 

An innocuous comment no doubt meant to be accepted by Crowley and Aziraphale both. Neither of them would be free. They would both be in one Hell or another.

“Here we are.”

Here they were. The cliff face where Aziraphale had failed to save Crowley weeks ago. The Fright set the demon down gently near the edge, and knelt before him, adopting an expression of serene apathy. Aziraphale choked and sobbed and wilted unseen by the redhead’s side.

“Please don’t leave me, my love,” he whispered. “There is no world without you.”

“You seem to have figured out how this works,” the Fright told Crowley. “In order to enter Hell you will have to Fall willingly. If you choose not to, we can continue on as we have. Or I might push you. You won’t enter Hell that way, but it would save me having to carry you back down.”

“I know,” Crowley murmured, looking out over the mountain range. “I’ll go, I'm just— thinking…”

“About Aziraphale?” the Fright flicked his blue eyes to the angel and his serene smile became a smirk.

“I only ever wanted to be with him,” Crowley sighed, looking so lost. Aziraphale tried to reach out. Tried to touch his dearest friend.

“I wanted that too, Crowley!” he wailed. “I was so twisted up with fear and worry over what I was supposed to do. I failed you in so many ways, but I always loved you, dear. Every moment.”

“I know you wanted that, darling,” the Fright cooed, stroking Crowley’s hair. “And all the angel wanted was to sip his wine in peace without a demon weighing him down.”

“Stop it!” Aziraphale screamed at the creature. “He’s going to do it, you horrible cursed thing! Don’t you see? Can’t you leave him be for one bloody second?!”

“Will he be happy?” Crowley asked, easing closer to the edge.

“Happier, certainly,” the Fright shrugged.

Crowley looked at the Fright carefully, and it had the dreadful feeling of finality to it. Aziraphale felt the air leave his lungs and couldn’t remember how to breath in again. It was happening. It was happening. It was happening and he couldn’t stop it.

“One last Fall,” the Fright smiled.

“One last Fall,” Crowley echoed, turning to the cliff. Panic, ebon and cold, swelled in the hollow spaces around the angel’s heart. Crowley was at the edge. He took a step...

Something in Aziraphale ripped apart. The prison shuddered as he shrieked his agony. Divinity, the violent, molten hot power of the Principality, erupted from the angel with a fury he had never experienced before. The boundaries of his prison bowed out at once against the onslaught and then collapsed. He unfurled his wings and lunged at his demon, pulling him close as they fell together. If Crowley was discorporating now then Aziraphale would as well. There was no world without Crowley. If he couldn’t spare him this fate, at least Aziraphale could be with him at the end. At least Crowley wouldn’t have to fall alone.

The ground broke apart far below them into a yawning maw of flame and the heat hit Aziraphale full force even this high up, making him shout in pain. He felt the deep corruption of Hell again and it sickened him, made him weak. He panicked again as the heat pricked the skin of his cheeks, stung his eyes, dried his tongue. He spread his wings to slow their fall but only managed to twist them into a chaotic spin, all at once further disorienting him as he lost track of up or down. In a heart stopping moment he very nearly lost his grip on the demon, barely managing to wrench his fingers into the black waistcoat and force themselves back together. His wings were burning, fire licking the feathers black. His wings! He’s lost his wings! He clutched Crowley closer and screamed.

*****

Something hit him hard in the chest and then Aziraphale was holding him as they fell. No. Not Aziraphale. It was  _ never  _ Aziraphale. The Fright, then— as it had to be— was screaming in torment and Crowley could smell the stench of burned feathers. But… That didn't make sense. It felt wrong and important and it was a shame they were doomed because he’d rather he had time to figure it out.

Well then again, he supposed he did. At least… he could...if he had enough energy left for one last miracle.

If the Fright would let him even try.

He desperately wanted to understand, though, so he tried to summon his powers. It felt like scraping up oily dregs of muck, but he found the last of his reserves and willed the fall to  _ stop _ .

Time slowed to a crawl and exhaustion hit him so powerfully he nearly lost command of time again immediately. He’d never felt such a strain on his ability before and he was immediately very worried his power might not recover. He might never get it back! 

And even  _ that  _ thought didn’t make sense. He was on his way to the Pit! He wouldn’t have his powers there anyway. But wait...the Pit? Wait… no. He needed this time to think. He needed to think. Yeah, he was going to die, but he’d bloody figure this out first if it killed him!

So, Crowley thought. 

The Fright shouldn’t be joining his fall. The horror of seeing Aziraphale’s sweet face twisted in agony as his wings burned was abominable, but the Fright would be discorporated by this. This would be the last torment he’d inflict on Crowley. And it would  _ hurt _ . Why would it do that? 

And the maw shouldn’t be open. Crowley didn’t jump. He was  _ going _ to, but something knocked him off the cliff. The Fright?  _ Why? _ To rob him of his entrance to Hell? The entrance was right there, he could feel the heat, smell the rot and brimstone. Crowley fully intended to jump, was just about to do so. The Fright would know that. Why bother doing this? He looked at the creature, the tears in its lovely eyes, the fear and agony on its pale face and remembered another thing that didn’t make sense.

He’d mentioned Uriel once. Why? Of all the bloody stupid archangels why  _ Uriel _ ? In all the very long time he’d known the angel, Aziraphale had seldom if ever mentioned Uriel. What was  _ that _ supposed to mean?

Crowley looked down at the burning maw of Hell and back up at the gleaming white wings being eaten away by hellfire. And then up ( _ up!) _ at the cliff edge where he could just see the tips of fluffy white-blond curls of the Fright.

The heat surrounding them vanished immediately at the realization that this wasn’t his nightmare. The maw wasn’t for him. It was for  _ Aziraphale _ . He was real. He was here!

_ Angel _ .

Crowley was too weak to hold back time much longer. The flames began to curl faster around the edges of feathers. He felt one of Aziraphale’s tears rolling up his own cheek.

The maw opened wide and they fell faster but this time Crowley prayed.

_ Uriel. Save him. _

He was suddenly cold again. Almost desperately cold in fact, his breath turning to frost in the air. He was also no longer falling. Before he fully understood what was happening, he and Aziraphale were gently placed on the rocky ground at the bottom of the high cliff.

The Archangel Uriel stared down at him and Crowley cringed in sudden panic. Not because he worried about being smote. Part of him still welcomed that. The Archangel looked at him with something akin to curiosity. There was no malice in her dark eyes.

This wasn’t real.

Uriel then turned her gaze on Aziraphale who was still writhing in agony, his wings aflame.

“Aziraphale,” she called, taking the Principality gently by the chin. “Wake up,” she told him. She snapped her fingers loudly in front of his upturned nose and Aziraphale blinked his sky blue eyes in surprise, gasping in shock. His flaming wings instantly vanished. The angels looked at each other in bewildered concern, then Aziraphale unfurled his wings once more to find them unblemished and gleaming white. He gazed up at the Archangel, wide-eyed and panting before he gave her a grateful nod and slumped in exhaustion. He actually seemed to flush with embarrassment as he scrubbed flustered tears out of his eyes. She returned his smile with a much more cautious one of her own.

“Oh, thank you, Uriel,” Aziraphale breathed. “I daresay you didn’t leave your intervention a moment too soon. I truly thought we were both done for. I’ve been calling you for ages!”

“If you have, I’m afraid I didn’t hear it,” Uriel answered. “I heard him, and came straight away. Hard to ignore a summons from the demon Crowley.” Uriel looked down at him, that curiosity dancing her dark eyes once more. “I confess I was intrigued.”

Crowley ignored the angels, looking instead back up the tall cliff. 

“Looking for me?” the Fright whispered in his ear. Crowley screamed in a mixture of surprise and terror.

“That is the thing that used my power and blocked my prayers,” Aziraphale scowled at the Fright. Uriel looked somewhat unnerved at the appearance of another Aziraphale. The Fright affected a wretched bout of fussiness and looked at her imploringly.

“Uriel, thank goodness you’ve arrived. You must know he’s an imposter and I’ve — “

“You’re clearly a demon,” Uriel told the Fright, unimpressed. 

“Ah well, worth a try, anyway,” the Fright shrugged.

"This creature has a fragment of your ethereal essence, Aziraphale," Uriel scowled. Crowley trembled at the frown. He distantly remembered a time he would have met it with swagger and sarcasm (while eyeing an exit, of course). Now he only wanted the exit. "Is this how it has caused such mayhem?"

"Indeed," the Principality nodded. He looked almost tired under his fury. Crowley shrank back further. "Embarrassing," he continued. "It is immune to my power."

Uriel looked between the pleasantly smiling Fright and the glowering Principality. Crowley felt just as confused as the Archangel looked. Aziraphale's essence made him smell and feel more like the angel and enhanced its ability to torment Crowley. It wouldn't be remotely powerful enough to foil an angel in Aziraphale's weight class. 

"You've been deceived," Uriel told the other angel. There was a time when Crowley would have smiled at the look of dawning understanding on his angel's face. The audacity that the First Liar had been lied to.

The Fright sighed good naturedly and shrugged, apparently accepting its fate with a bittersweet smile. 

“I suppose I should graciously accept this game has concluded.” The Fright offered Crowley his hand. “Well played. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon enough.”

Crowley looked at the offered hand and shrank away. The Fright’s smile widened. 

“I’m sure you’ll find yourself back in Hell presently,” Aziraphale rumbled. “And quite alone.”

The Fright merely shrugged. “No doubt. I’m content to wait. Do you know how many corporations Crowley has gone through in the past? Only a matter of time before I see my dearest again.”

Those blue eyes turned back on Crowley, freezing him with their stare. “We’ll have a grand time catching up before you’re sent to the Pit. Won’t we, my lo—"

Light, hot and holy seared across Crowley’s vision, too close — terrifyingly close— obliterating the Fright on contact. Crowley threw himself to the rocky ground, folding his trembling arms over his head. 

“Oh! Oh, my dear Crowley! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside the demon and Crowley balled himself up tighter, whimpering. “I was so desperate to be rid of the thing, I didn’t think …”

“He’s unwell,” Uriel said above them. “I wouldn’t advise staying in this harsh climate.”

“Well, yes. Obviously it is less than ideal, Uriel,” Aziraphale snapped.

“You have been weakened as well, Aziraphale,” Uriel mentioned. Crowley shuddered and forced himself to look up at the dark Archangel. Aziraphale glared at her, and she shrugged as if she didn’t understand all the ire. “Would you like assistance back to London?” she asked finally, looking at the Principality as though he’d gone mad.

“Oh…” Aziraphale demurred. “Yes. Thank you. That would be most— “ They were suddenly in the shop. “— kind…” Uriel looked to have gone. Crowley watched Aziraphale warily. The angel (Fright?) turned a slow circle, taking in the bookshop with a shaky smile.

“Is it over?” he asked, looking over at Crowley finally. Crowley didn’t answer. He didn’t believe it was for a second. The angel’s hopeful smile died, leaving his beautiful pale face a mask of sorrow and dread.

“I’m not sure how to convince you that I am real,” he said.

“You’re not,” Crowley responded, his voice dead. “And I’m done with this. I’m done with you. Let me go.”

“I’m sorry, dear boy,” the creature sighed, golden tears trailing down his cheeks. “I promise you, I’ll make this up to you in time.” 

With that the creature lifted him into his arms and carried Crowley up the stairs to the flat above. Crowley didn’t bother to fight as he was set on the floor of the little washroom and watched the creature fill the porcelain tub with hot soapy water.

“Apologies, my dear,” he said gently. “Do you need help undressing?”

Crowley only stared, waiting, so the creature slowly and with much fuss and constant apologizing removed Crowley’s filthy clothing and then lifted him into the soothing water. 

_ He’ll drown me again, _ he figured, waiting. The creature gently washed his hair. He removed the grime from Crowley’s face with a soft damp cloth. They sat in silence, and Crowley wasn’t drowned.

“Can you summon yourself a new set of clothes?” the creature asked eventually. Crowley flicked his eyes at him. It knew he couldn’t. He’d been broken. His limited energy was struggling just to keep his corporation alive.

“I have a nightshirt you can wear. You won’t like the style, but it should suffice until you’re feeling better.”

The water was let out of the tub. Crowley watched the filth drain away, frowning. It  _ wouldn’t  _ be drowning then. Too obvious. 

The creature held up a sand coloured towel.  _ Smothering? Strangulation?  _ His hair was carefully towel dried. Then his arms and chest, his legs. Finally Crowley was lifted out of the tub and carried to the bed.

_ Humiliation then. Bound and beaten? Something much worse? _

A pale blue cotton night shirt was lowered over his head, his arms pulled through the sleeves. The creature gently tucked him into the bed and drew the covers up to his chin. The pillows were soft and cool. The creature lowered the lights. Crowley’s eyes were so heavy.

“I’ll make us some tea while you get comfortable, if that’s…” Crowley drifted off.

  
  
  
  


“... come on. drink this, dear.”

Crowley groaned, tried to push the fussing hands away. “You’ve been asleep a full day, Crowley dear. I’ll let you rest, but I’d really like it if you’d drink some broth first. You need to get your strength back.”

_ Poison?  _

It smelled like chicken and salt. His mouth watered and he mewled pathetically. The creature lifted it to his lips and helped him drink. The temperature was tepid, the flavour mild and delicious and the best thing he’d ever tasted. He tried to gulp it down and was warned off by the creature. “Easy now. Not too fast or you’ll be sick. Small sips, please.”

He watched the creature speculatively while it fussed with feeding him bit by bit. The illusion was no longer perfect. The manicured fingernails were too long, and chipped in places. They scratched him lightly as the creature dabbed his chin with a soft napkin. The hands that cared for him shook a little. The cheeks were a little less round, and the blue eyes looked anxious, framed with dark circles. His smile was slower, tighter at the corners. 

He didn’t look right. It caught him staring and Crowley quickly flicked his gaze away.

  
  


Crowley later woke from a nightmare, sweating and screaming. The room was dark, but the creature was there, sitting in a chair near the bed reading a book under a small lamp.

“You’re safe,” it told him. “Can I get you some water?” 

Crowley eyed it suspiciously but nodded. The creature poured some water into a cup from a carafe on the bedside table and gently helped Crowley drink. It turned out to  _ actually  _ be water. 

“No kisses anymore?” he mumbled, confused at the breach in routine. Frights were slaves to their programming. Was this a new Fright? Had he already died and he was back in Hell?

“I… don’t think that would be appreciated,” the creature seemed genuinely sad. This one was a better actor. “Perhaps someday. When you’re whole. When we’ve fixed things between us.”

_ Restraint? _ Crowley frowned.  _ Hope? _

“You’ve been asleep for a couple days,” the creature sat on the edge of the bed and Crowley flinched. The creature froze in return, eyes wide with concern. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. I was just wanting to see if your colour was returning.”

“Days?” Crowley asked. He’d never gone this long without a death. 

“I went to your flat and brought you some clothing. I thought you might be more comfortable in your own pyjamas.” The black silk was placed on the pillow beside him. “I also brought you a pair of your sunglasses. I know they make you feel more secure…”

_ Respect? Dignity? _

“Do you think you might be up for having a bit more broth?” the creature (angel?) asked.

Crowley watched him speculatively, nodded. He was blessed with a smile and a short while later he was being spoon fed chicken soup. 

He could feel his body improving slowly, healing with the rest and nourishment. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t smart to let a demon of his wit and imagination get strong enough to fight back. A Fright would know this. Any demon would.

“Angel?” he whispered, afraid of being wrong, of breaking the spell.

“Yes?” came the simple reply. Aziraphale waited patiently. Crowley’s heart began to beat faster. Hope began to bloom. Dangerous. Dangerous, he knew.

“Water?” he asked, needing something to say. 

“Of course,” the angel nodded. “Here you are.” The cup was tilted to his lips again. The water was cool, but not cold. Easy on his weak stomach. A gentle hand swept Crowley’s hair out of his face, a simple comforting gesture and it didn’t occur to Crowley to flinch until it was already done. 

“Is the corruption still bothering you?” Crowley asked quietly, testing to see when these soft ministrations would turn sharp.

_ If _ they would turn sharp.

Aziraphale sighed, looking guilty. “That was a horrible thing to have said. I’m embarrassed to say I think I was indeed infected with  _ something _ after my little stint in Hell, but it was nothing at all to do with you.” He fussed with his hands, wringing them on his lap. “But to answer your question, no. It faded completely later that night, in fact, and I came to the horrible realization of just how atrociously I’d behaved. I tried to find you to apologize but you were already gone.”

Crowley didn’t answer. It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. It sounded very much like Aziraphale and  _ it wasn’t the answer Crowley had been expecting _ .

That was promising. 

Maybe it was over.

The angel helped him change into his black pyjamas. Crowley slipped his glasses back into place, sighing pleasantly at having them back, then noticed a little sad smile on the angel's face.

“Wot’s wrong?” he asked, clocking the regret.

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale waved dismissively. ”Only that I’ve always thought your eyes were lovely. I hope to see them again someday.”

“My eyes?” Crowley’s heart beat faster still. “Lovely? You’re joking.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”

Crowley shook his head, so the angel returned to his seat and picked up his book. Crowley settled down, watching the angel from the safety of his dark glasses.

He thought Crowley’s eyes were lovely?

Crowley removed the glasses and put them back on the bedside table before rolling back onto his side. Aziraphale had looked up from his book at the sudden motion, and smiled.

Nothing more.

Just a smile. It was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

**Author's Note:**

> Feed me your kudos and comments, so that I may get stronger! FEED MEEEEEEEE!


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